Tears In Heaven
by ria95
Summary: Now his blessedness appears. AU Guy/OC. I own nothing except OC and any original story line. Please Read and Review
1. Book One: Florence, 1274

**Book One: Wind of Change**

* * *

**_Florence, Italy, 1274_**

He stood aside of the mass of dancing bodies clad in gold and silver clothes, which twirled in the air as they spun in their intricate yet polite choreography creating an aureate cloud of spurious prosperity. He stood on the far left of the hall with his back pressed against the east-facing wall, while he shuffled nervously on his feet. He had moved away from the large mass of jovial individuals and from the large assembly of candles, as they had only contributed him to grow warmer beneath the heavy opulent clothing his mother had insisted he wear. Though he was now a good, comfortable distance from the merry gathering and in a poorly lit section of the hall, which's darkness was only dispelled by the singular taper on his right, he still felt unbearably warm beneath the laden crimson overcoat his mother had clad him in for tonight's gathering. He shifted awkwardly beneath the vermilion overcoat as he felt the velveteen fabric weigh down his shoulders almost viciously and he felt the coarse heavy material chafe irritatingly against his skin. Pearls of sweat were forming on his forehead and he could already feel the first droplets run their course down his cheeks. He felt warm, dizzy, light-headed and infinitely uncomfortable

He was wearisome. Tonight his parents and him were attending the gathering at the palazzo of one of his father's merchant friends. While their carriage had ridden  
across the Ponte Vecchio and he had remarked on how the water beneath the bridge had been hued orange-red and dull yellow at the same time the heavens above him  
had flushed with the same shades as the sun set in the distant horizon, he had been able to make out the brightly-lit silhouette of the palazzo looming like a great, heavy impugner in the distance. His mother had cautioned him to be polite and sociable, as she loathed his pensive and reticent nature and he had taken her avocation seriously and had been determined to please his parents by being a polite and obedient son. But as soon as he had exited their carriage and walked beside his reputable and composed mother across the tall marble archway, he had grown less confident and decided. His assurance had abandoned him completely like the most disloyal of companions, when he had entered the festive halls and he had seen the large mass of conversing nobles with their proud expressions and their ornate display of their affluence and influence. He had grown reticent once more, when his father had gone off to talk with one of his trade colleagues and he had sat on a cushioned chair beside his mother, as she discussed gowns and jewels with the wife of Signore Bacci. He had grown uncomfortable when he had felt almost smothered by the atmosphere heavy with conversation and ale. He had grown unbearably warm beneath his heavy clothing and the numerous candles which circled and imprisoned him only added to his discomfort. So he had quickly moved away and found solace in a remote corner of the room.

And he watched the festive individuals and perceived his surroundings like a silent, absent shadow. He watched on as the dancing couples moved in time, simultaneously in a polite and courtly manner and his heart beat in time to the music. _Thump_, the gentleman twirled his lady. _Thump_, they frolicked in a semi-circle. _Thump_, the gentleman took his lady by the waist and lifted her at a respectable height. _Thump_, they separated. _Thump_, they stepped toward each other. _Thump_, she curtseyed. _Thump_, he bowed. And all began anew like an infinite circle. Objectively, he would say that his surroundings were quite refined. The opulence of their host's wealth was not detected in the vastness of the room, but in the ornate and champleve details of the hall, ranging from the golden garnishes on the marble columns to the undeterminable and ambiguous pattern on the marble floor, which consisted of infinite, sickly yellow spirals and twisting, green vines. He observed the opulence in the vastness of the food and ale served and he watched as the servants carried off hollow and squeezed orange peels. And he watched in distaste the effect the ale seemed to have on the patrons. He watched as the man grew increasingly cruder and would blatantly leer at the comely form of one of the serving maids, while their primped and proud wives stood beside them, eyeing their drunken husbands with resentment and exasperation. He would watch the nobles converse and eat and dance, but he would do so as a shadow. He watched, but did not partake in any debauchery.

He had lost any sense of time. He did not know how long he had stood there, silently observing and he had ceased to care about time, as the minutes, seconds, moments had blended together into a vacuous, continuous gorge. Time had ceased to be of importance to him, as he was under the spell of the patrons' continuous actions, which did not cease to be the same, which were constant and homologous. To him it felt, as if had landed in a limbo, where one would lose any perception of time and would be damned to be frozen into a state and for all eternity remain in it. He could not help but feel hopeless, as he watched the repetitive routine of the dancing couples.

Yet in a moment, that all changed and nothing would ever be the same for him ever again.

The first thing he saw was a fleeting glance of mahogany on lavender. He had fleetingly averted his eyes from the dancing couples, as they grew wary of the monotonous movements and he had glanced toward the staircase and he had seen that fleeting glance and his heart had changed from its monotone tune to the rhythm of a horse's gallop. The next thing he saw was a pair of deep, warm, brown eyes above pink, blooming cheeks, contrasting with ivory creamy skin and then he was lost completely.

In a haze he perceived that all the blood had rushed from his face and that his mouth had gone dry, drier than the summer days in his father's farm in Tuscany  
where he would roam about the long, uniform lanes of the vineyards. His mind was consumed with thoughts of the contrast between mahogany and lavender and  
of raspberries on cream and of warm pools of brown. He felt his legs move and the staircase his eyes refused to walk away from came increasingly closer. And  
then her gaze moved from her conversation companion and those glorious orbs of chestnut were steered in his direction. His legs stopped and as he saw her  
looking toward him, he felt his body turn to clay, he felt his life turn to clay, he felt his all turn to clay. The candles that had previously only added to his discomfort were now his one source of delight, as her ebony hair reflected the dim light of the flickering flames and it shined umber, like a glorious hazel halo around her head.

She was an angel.

She surely had to be. Had he not felt such an innate sense of joy at her presence and his discovery of her he would have questioned what this heavenly creature was doing here, in this limbo, in this den of the damned where they were all condemned. He would have asked himself why this creature, who was surely one of God's most prized creations, had launched itself from paradise where she surely had her fixed seat and how she had come to be here. He would have wondered at that and at the fact that she was in this abyss of homogeneity when she was anything... everything... but that. When she had appeared in his life and with a single glance he had known that he would never more be the same. And as he watched her, with the sound of blood rushing in his ears, and the corner of her rosy lips twisted into a small smile he allowed himself to believe that she had come for him, to find him, to save him. Then her eyes averted themselves from him and he felt the blood rush back into his face.

His eyesight was gone, except for his gaze at the angel. All else seemed to him as midnight on noonday. All had ceased existing, except her and perhaps as a member of the human race he should've felt regret at that, but he could not, because only she existed and he was filled with joy at that fact. The dancing couples and the surroundings he had studied previously with such fervid intensity were void to him, unseen by him.

He had moved closer to her and just as he was about to reach her, she looked behind her, as if she had been summoned. He was close, so close, he was so close to her that he could feel the warmth radiating off her form and reaching him through the void that separated them both. And as he saw her make to move, desperation filled him. She would be gone. If he let her go now, his angel would be gone and he would never see her again. He would have to return to his previous life, to a world void of her while simultaneously knowing of her, a world without her...

Unconsciously his arm shot out and he felt his hand encircle her wrist. He grew warm at the sensation of her small wrists, so small wrists, encased by his hand and he had to resist the urge to bring them to his lips and kiss the inside of it. He felt her wrist slipping from his grasp slowly and then their palms met and her hand was entwined with his. He did not know what he expected at the sensation of her small fingers laced with his. Perhaps he had thought that her hands would be as cold as his mother's or the hands of anyone he had met previously in his life. Perhaps he had thought that her hands would be fleeting, almost spectral, almost as blissfully unreal as she had seemed at first glance to him. He had, however, not expected that her hands would be warm and firm in his grasp. He had not believed that they would be soft like clouds and that she would hold his hands, like he was an adult and she was the child she was and would hold his hand in fear. He felt her fingers grace his once, twice, thrice, like a shy animal, almost testing the mercy of his hands, fearful of the sensations their connected palms had invoked. He felt his fingers twitch in a reassuring gesture, with promise to her, to him.

Brown eyes met grey-blue ones.

At his proximity to her, he could make out golden and green flecks in her expressive, deep brown eyes and he was spellbound by them, so much so that he at first saw the momentary surprise in her eyes, before they morphed and became tender and warm once more. He saw the corner of her lips twitch upwards into an affectionate smile and he once more grew warm and lightheaded, but now these sensations were bliss to him.

He did not know how long he had stood before her simply gazing into her eyes, before he heard himself ask, through the blood rushing in his ears: „What is your name?"

Her smile widened and her lips parted and then the angel spoke: „Beatrice."


	2. Following the Wind of Change

„_All happy families are alike; each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way."- Anna Karenina, Leo Tolstoy_

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_London, England, 1929_

She had not understood.

Perhaps she had been too young to understand. Perhaps the scene had been too alien in its nature for her to understand it. Perhaps she had been so engrossed by her elder's brother narrative that she had been blind and deaf to anything but the story he was telling her. Perhaps she had been so gobsmacked to see the change in her usual routine that the shock had overwhelmed and rendered her uncapable of understanding. Perhaps- perhaps she had not wanted to undertstand. Perhaps she had grasped with her childish mind that what had happened was something so painful, so crushing that she had unconsciously shielded herself with the protective blanket of oblivion and had not wanted to undertstand.

She had not understood.

She had not understood why her mother had gone deadly pale after she had picked up the receiver of the ringing telephone. Why her mother's contentment at embroidering while sitting in the living room with her three children had so abruptly disappeared from her eyes and they had turned dead. She had not understood why her mother had proceeded to mutter in a hollow, cold voice 'No. Oh God!' She had sat beside her elder brother Bucky and she had not understood why he had literally jumped up from the sofa and had encased their mother in his arms as her knees had seemed to give out beneath her and she had witnessed how her mother had fallen to the ground, her face contorted with grief and agony, in a matter of seconds that had seemed to stretch eternally long. Her four-year-old mind had not grasped why Bucky had gone from jovially reading to her how the stubborn bunny Peter Rabbit was eating his fill of vegetables from the garden of the grumpy and cruel Mr. McGregor and disobeying his mother who had prohibited her children to venture into the man's garden, because Peter's father had found his end there backed into a pie by Mrs. McGregor to holding their sobbing mother on the ground, his attentions completely devoted to the distressed woman. She had not understood as she had looked into her lap and had fiddled with the sleeve of her blue polka-dot dress and she had not heard her mother reproaching her for the nervous gesture, and instead her ears had been filled with the loud, heart-broken cries of her mother. She had not understood why her mother had not tucked her in later that evening and made sure that she was holding the doll that had belonged to her mother during her childhood. She had at first not understood why Bucky had come to her later in the evening, a little after her mother's sobs that rang throughout their home had finally ceased and he had sat at her bedside with bloodshot eyes and tear-stained cheek. She had at first not undertstood when Bucky had told her that their father would not return at midday on Saturday and he would not take her on their usual Saturday stroll across the park adjacent to their home.

'Of course father will come back, Bucky. He promised me that he would read me The Tale of Mr.. Tod on Saturday. It's his favorite, he took it with him, you can't read it to me, only father.' She had not understood why Bucky had buried his face in his hands at her words and had exhaled shakingly, before gathering her into his arms and holding her with so tight a grip that it had almost hurt her.

It was only the next day that she understood. She only understood, as she was walking from her brother Johnny's nursery to her own room, when she had passed by the sitting room and through the crack in the door she had spied the tall forms of her father's brother and her mother's sister, two people she had never previously met and whose face she had at that time not glimpsed as she could only see their slack-clad legs or the heavy skirt of their dress. She had overheard the words 'automobile accident' and 'funeral arrangements' and those words had caused a shiver to race down her spine and she had turned on her heel and ran into her room, before shutting the door tightly behind her, as if she had been chased by an univisble foe and she had just barely escaped with her life by seeking sanctuary in her room. She had spent the afternoon in her room, sitting on her bed with her knees drawn to her chest and she had gazed out of the window and without registering it, she had witnessed the blue sky turning orange at sunset and inky black at night. She had sat and thought. And then she had finally understood. She had undertstood why Bucky had been so ademant last night that father would not return in two days' time. She had understood why her mother had broken down. She had only understood then, and later she would find out that her father had lost control of his new automobile car and had driven off a cliff. But now she had just come to terms that, no, her father would not be coming back on Saturday and that in the evening he would not be able to finally indulge her and read her The Tale of Mr. Tod for the first time, something he had looked forward to: sharing his favourite story with his only daughter. It was then that the blissful protection of oblivion had been lifted off her and she had known the truth..

She had understood what had happened that day. But she could have never fathomed how it would impact her life.

It was not only the gaping wound caused by the absence of their father. The fact that Julia would look up during mealtimes and replacing the mustached, jovial face of her father at the dinner table with a raw, empty void. It was not the fact that before she would go to sleep, she would sit on her bed and she would trace the illustrations of the whiskers of Peter Rabbit as he ate the bright orange carrots with an indulgent, cheeky expression and she would awkwardly enunciate the words: „First he ate some lettuces and some French Beans; and then he ate some radishes," trying to teach herself how to read. It was not the fact that come Saturday afternoon, she would look at Nurse, her German Shepherd, seeing her despondency, because it missed the walks in the park. Just like she did.

It was the change in her mother that would shape her childhood completely. She silently observed as the once-warm, jovial woman become reticent and then uncharacteristically stern. She witnessed how her mother had gone from ensuring that she slept with the doll that she had gotten on her thrid birthday to harshly rebuking her when she arrived home and the hem of her dress would be caked with mud. She would witness how every evening, after dinner time, her mother would forego the company of her children in the sitting room and would retire to her chambers with a glass bottle of some liquid the colour of topaz. And she would see the disapproving, tight expression on Bucky's face and she would silently take note of it, as she watched her mother exit the dining room, a cloud of black from her billowing skirt in her wake. She would also note that her mother increasingly aloof and indifferent to her and Johnny, who was only a few months old. It was her rather than her mother, who would awake at night when Johnny was crying and it was her, who rocked the baby back and forth into her arms, rocking him to sleep, while he drank the warm milk, she had awkwardly prepared for him. She also noted how her mother grew increasingly closer to Bucky, their relationship almost bordering on co-dependency and at times she would jealously watch how her mother would embrace her eldest son 'It's because James looks so much like his father,' she had once heard her aunt state during the Sunday meals, after they returned from mass, justifying her mother's predilection toward Bucky. She had observed all this, witnessed all the change in her idyllic childhood. But silently, almost like a third obective viewer, because not once had she cried.

She had not cried.

She had not cried, when she finally understood why her mother had been so distressed after that fateful phonecall during that Wednesday afternoon. She had not cried that afternoon she had sat on her bed and she had finally understood, she had finally realized. She did not cry a week later during her father's funeral, when she had sat on the front row of the church, the hard wood of the benches beneath her and she had sat beside Bucky, who had his head bowed and whose shoulders were impercetibly shaking. She had not cried when she had held the tiny bundle that was her youngest brother in her arms and had watched the wooden casket being lowered into the ground, taking her father from her once and for all. She had not cried when days later she had tried to climb into her mother's lap, searching for her motherly comfort, and the woman had risen and put her back on the ground before leaving the room and her incredulous on the floor. She did not cry when she spent the night awake, trying to lower the fever that had packed Johnny during the first month of autmn, while his high-pitched and distressed cries ghosted in her mind. She had not cried. Not even then, when she had almost feared that she would lose her brother.

She had not cried and perhaps some would have perceived that as cold and callous, especially since her beloved father had died. And she would at times reflect on that, especially on the afternoon after the funeral when she had passed by Bucky's room and had seen his hunched-over form, as he mourned the loss of the man who had been an idol, an inspiration to them all. But she had been unable to. She had not been able to cry, not at her father's funeral, not days afterward.

It was only a year later, when she was packing her things and she came across her father's possessions that Bucky had put away out of sight because they had been unable to view the items that had been found by the ruins of her father's car. It was only when her small hands came to rest upon a cold, hard surface and she grasped the item and retrieved it from beneath the pile of old clothing. It was only when her fingertips ghosted over the image of a fox clad in a orange-brown overcoat and she whispered the words 'The Tale of Mr. Tod'. It was only as she looked down at the book, which she would hold onto the rest of her life like a religious artefact that tears ran their valley down her cheeks and she cried for the loss of the man, whom she had loved.

* * *

_Gisborne Estate, England, 1165_

He stood solemnly before his father awaiting his superior to address him. He had been summoned by his father and Guy had immediately acquiesced and he had been excited, because the man he had looked up to for so long had finally noticed him.

Guy could not fault his father for not paying as much attention to him, as perhaps some of the fathers paid their sons. His father was after all lord over all these lands, which in Guy's young eyes seemed endless. He could not fault that his father would often speak to him with slight exasperation coloring his voice, whenever Guy wished to show him a new manouever he had learned on the sword. Of course Guy had been disappointed when his father had dismissed him with a shake of his hand after Guy had shown him his precise, strong thrust and had turned to watch the peasants working on the fields. But Guy could not fault his father, because autumn and the harvesting season would soon be upon them and Guy knew, even at only seven years of age that his father needed to ensure that the Gisborne lands achieved the quote set forth by the steward of Nottinghamshire. Guy could not fault his father, because he was a noble knight and Guy had learned that his father had more important things to do than to pay mind to the fancies of his young son. But this did not stop Guy from wishing to earn his father's approval. Guy had become learned in Latin and could read and write, hoping that this would color him favorable in his father's eyes. Since he had been able to walk Guy had diligently followed his father and had watched him rule over his lands and Guy had soon adopted the qualities a rightful and just lord possessed. Qualities his father possessed, such as sternness, a strong sense of discipline, someone who demanded respect and utter obedience from his inferiors. Yet his father had conntinued to disregard him in favour of his lands and his occupation, while he had been persistent.

So when Lord Roger of Gisborne had summoned him, Guy had happily and enthusiastically acquiesced and that is how he found himself, stood with his back straight and trying to draw himself up to a respectable height, before his father who was eying him impassively before addressing and telling Guy that he would leave for a while.

Guy blinked at the news his father had regaled him with. For a moment he forgot to maintain his proud posture before his father and his form and jaw slackened before he could remember himself. He looked up wide-eyed at his father and for the first time showed the infantile vulnerability attributed to his age before his idol. His father could not leave. How could he leave now that the fields of the Gisborne lands had turned golden with ripe wheat and the peasant would soon harvest their bounty. How could he leave when soon winter would be upon them and his strong, assured guidance would be needed for them to overcome and survive the terrible conditions of winter. How could he leave now that his mother was big and heavy and round with his unborn child, with Guy's sibling. How could he leave now and most of all what would happen if he did indeed leave, how would these lands manage with their leader, how would Guy manage without his father.

Unbiddenly a scene Guy had witnessed, albeit secretly, flashed before his mind's eye. He had just returned home after going to the stables and tending to his horse, when he had heard his mother's loud exclamation of 'No'. Guy had felt alarm at hearing his mother's beatific and warm voice having been distorted into a pained and frightened shriek. He had quickly moved to the main hall where the sound had originated from, intent on protecting his mother from any hazard or any pain- his beatific, pious mother, who had onlyever shown devoted and unwavering care to her only son. And when he had stood in the main hall he had been met with scene that had left him feeling highly confused and chafed. He had entered the main hall and he had stood in the entryway and he had seen how his mother was kneeling before his father and had her arms slung around his legs and was looking at Lord Roger of Gisborne with a pained expression and tear-stained cheeks. And his father... his strong, proud father had looked down at the distressed woman at his feet with an impassive, cold expression and had been undeterred by his wife's sobbing, when he had told her that he was decided.

Guy had quickly left the hall, embarrassed at having witnessed his parent's interaction and ashamed at having intruded in something that he had quickly recognized as private and personal between his parents. And he had left highly confused concerning the source of his mother's distress.

But he was not so now, that he stood before his proud and undeterred father and with a doe-eyed expression and with a low voice asked him: „Where are you going, father?"

„I will fight in the crusades, my boy. I am going to support the king in the Holy Lands," Lord Roger answered his son in his deep, confident voice. Guy supposed that he should feel pride that his father was to become a crusader- that he was to serve the crown and god as a celestial, brave knight, that he was to defend the deific birthrights of Christians. Guy should have felt proud, because to become a crusader was all that boys his age dreamed of, that his father was assuming a station that was glorified and praised by the entirety of the Christian population. But Guy did not want his father to leave him and he knew that it was perhaps selfish of him to disapprove of his father's decision, but he knew that the Gisborne lands needed his father, that his pregnant needed his father, that he needed his father.

„But who will take care of the lands and of mother?" Guy asked in a low whisper and he felt his father's posture stiffen. He raised his eyes, which he had averted to the ground during his questioning and he saw that his father was looking down at him with a disapproving gesture. At seeing his father's disappointment Guy immediately grew grave and cringed and he once more straightened his spine and met his father's stare, all the while masking the hurt and self-deprication he had felt at seeing his father looking at him with disappointment, something Guy had hoped he would never have to experience.

„Your mother will be able to care for herself. She is quite resourceful. I do hope however that as the man in the house you will take responsibility and mind these lands, our lands during my absence," his father explained to him in a low, emotionless tone and at hearing his father's demands of him, Guy perked up and nodded his head in acquiescence. He hoped to dispell the disappointment that his father seemed to feel towards him. At that moment, as Guy had looked up at the man who was his idol, someone he aspired to be, he had become decided he would be like his father, a strict and prudent ruler. He would ensure that when his father returned from the holy Lands he would find the lands just as he had left them. His father would then know that Guy had taken great efforts to secure his legacy and Guy hoped that his father would be proud of him them.

It was days later that Guy stood beside his mother and he watched the form of his father ride off into the distance, into the glowing yellow orb of the sun. Years later, long after Guy had been forced to grow up prematurely and take a copious amount of responsibility on his young shoulder, he would still remember his impression of Sir Roger's figure clad in white. He would remember the impression he'd had as he had watched his father ride off in the direction of the promised lands; he would remember that he had thought his father to be a divine hero, the bravest and strongest of man. He would carry this image of his father, his strong aquiline features proud and confident, even long after Sir Roger had returned and Guy's life began its steady descent into shambles.


	3. The Starling's Song

„_I talk in a daze, I walk in a maze. I cannot get out, said the starling."- Lolita, Vladimir Nabokov _

* * *

_Clifton Manor Nottinghamshire, England, 1931_

She was still in the process of packing away her possessions into the wardrobe of her new chamber. It had been only three days ago that they had vacated their home in the southern suburbs of bustling London and had travelled to Nottinghamshire in the Midlands. It had only been three days and at times it was difficult for her to believe that, because here in the idyllic quietude of the country she had lost all sense of time. The hours of the day had meshed together into a vast obscurity and she was unsure whether the days had stretched for her or had been compressed. All she knew is that when her mother had entered her new room earlier that morning and had admonished her because she still not unpacked all of her things and three days had already passed since their arrival, she had looked up at her mother with a slack jaw and had looked at her incredulously. Perhaps it was a combination, perhaps the minutes did stretch into hours and shorten to seconds in her mind, simultaneously like a repetitive coil. Perhaps that is why she had not perceived time bypassing her fleetingly, but would still get a sense of monotony as she would look out the window and gaze at the dense, dark forest abutting her uncle's manor and she would hear the chirping of the larks and in the early mornings, if she strained her ear, she would be able to accompany the symphony of the forest as it awakened.

She would look out at the dense forestry before her, at times with regret and she would remember that when she had stood on her tip-toes and had looked out of her narrow window in her old room in London. She had overlooked a sea of red tiles and long chimneys; she had looked up into the sky and she would spend the time between her still being too animated to go to sleep and when her lids finally grew heavy with sleep, searching the London sky for the second star to the right and she searched for Peter Pan's and Tinkerbell's distinguishable forms in the sky, hoping that her childhood hero would enter her room and would have pixie dust rain down upon her form. She would think good thoughts, remembering the first daisies of spring and the sound of Johnny's delighted laughter and then she would feel her form starting to float and she would fly. She would fly to the second star to the right and straight on until morning to Neverland and like Wendy Darling she would care for the Lost Boys and for Peter and she would tell them stories. She would fly the whole day and at night she would watch the twinkling lights of the fairies as they danced around her. She would fight alongside Peter against the old codfish that was the odious Captain Hook and every time they would be victorious, because evil never prevails. She had tried to search for that same star during her first evening in her new home, but was left eternally disappointed when she could not distinguish Peter's star, her star, from the rest. There had been too many stars in the night sky and she had gone to bed with an innate sense of disappointment.

They had arrived in Clifton Manor three days ago. The old, Victorian estate, which was located twenty miles south of Nottingham was her uncle Walter's residence. She had never previously met Uncle Walter. She had only known that he was her father's only, elder brother and that he had left England during the 1920s, had boarded a ship to the vast continent of North America and had built a considerable fortune in the city of New York. He had returned only two years ago, before her father's death and the two brothers had been quite estranged from another due to the large time interval they had spent apart. Her aunt had told her that, while they had been packing away her things in London when she had asked her mother's sister what the man, whom they would now live with was like and why she had never previously met him. She supposed that Uncle Walter had come to her father's wake, but during that time she had been so busy looking down at her feet that she had not looked up at anyone. Not even when they had come up to her and her family and had expressed their condolences in a cold and monotonous voice. She had not wanted to look up at the people, for at the beginning of the wake she had gotten out of their auto mobile and she had seen Mrs. Wiltman, their right-hand neighbour looking at her sobbing mother with an expression of veiled, bitter distaste, no doubt generated by her belief that expressing such an amount of emotion in public was truly inappropriate. So she had not looked at anything other than her feet lest she see another expression on an individual's face that would cause her the same resentment she had experienced toward Mrs. Wiltman. She had looked at her feet and at Johnny's peacefully slumbering face and at nothing else. So she could honestly say that she had never met her Uncle Walter.

And she had not thought that she ever would, but then two weeks ago her mother and her aunt had decided that her mother, Bucky, Johnny and her ought to move to her uncle's estate, because of her mother's declining health. They had written a letter to Uncle Walter detailing her mother's declining health and how the family physician had recommended that they move to a more peaceful place with healthy air. In correspondence, Uncle Walter had written back a week later and had expressed his acquiescence concerning their residence in his home. As a result of this exchange of letters, they had travelled the long, dusty road from London to Clifton Manor. For the last twenty or so miles in their route, the roads had been lined with dense, lush greenery, which she had looked at with amazement until they driven around the corner and Clifton Manor had come into view. Her gaze had then been stirred to the Manor, which emerged from the dense, dark-green forest behind it in a body composed of red brick. The façade of the house sported bay windows, arranged in a uniform line with iron railings running throughout the length of it. Periodically, there were white patterns in the brickwork, yet they were so meticulously arranged that they did not negatively impact the imposing and solemn nature of the building. She had exited the auto mobile in a daze and they been received by a grey-haired, stern-looking woman with a strong, straight nose, whom she had first assumed to be her uncle's wife, but she had later discovered that she was his governess, Ms. McClaren.

But there had been no trace of her uncle for three days now.

When her mother had asked Ms. McClaren where Uncle Walter was after the first evening's meal, the stern woman had curtly replied that the Master of the house preferred to keep to himself. And that allegation had indeed come true for she had not once seen her uncle during all this time and she wondered if perhaps he had not left Clifton Manor, as they had arrived.

She had just finished putting away the last of her white ruffled dresses when she decided to go to Johnny's nursery and put away his possessions. She had cared for her toddler brother Johnny, since the day they had received news of her father's passing. She had cared for him. She had made sure that his diaper was always clean and that he always received meals at a proper time. Often times she had simply fallen asleep in the rocking chair in his nursery, as she had read him the adventures of Peter Rabbit and of Benjamin Bunny and of Tommy Kitten, the latter which Johnny seemed to particularly enjoy, in the same loud voice she recalled her father using when he had used to read to her. She would rise whenever he cried in the middle of the night and she would sit in the rocking chair and she would soothe her little brother back to sleep, while singing him whisperingly his favourite lullaby that talked of ponies: all kinds of them dapples and greys and pinto and bays. She would sing and she would promise him all the ponies he wanted. She had cared for him and assumed a tremendous responsibility at such young an age. Perhaps she should have resented that, resented that she could not be as carefree and that she could not play hopscotch with Annie Wiltman, when she came by in the afternoons, because she had to make sure that her little brother ate his soup. But she didn't, she cared for him and in caring for him she had grown to love him even more. And she could not resent the fact that her little brother was dependent on her. She could not resent him, when she rocked him in her arms and he would hold the thumb of her right hand in his little fist, as his eye lids became droopy and yawned and fell sleep. She could not resent that fact, especially when she had nursed him back to health after a terrible, severe fever had packed him during the first winter after their father's death. The morning twilight had arrived and she had stood at the side of Johnny's crib and she had looked down at the slumbering boy, who had previously been screaming and thrashing in his little bed and whose cheeks were still stained like red apples in his exhaustion and at that moment she, with her mahogany hair sticking to her sweaty forehead, had promised that she would always care for her little brother, that she would always be there for him when he needed her, that she would never abandon him.

She had been so lost in her thoughts that she had not been minding in which direction she was going and when she turned the corner she was met with the sight of an unfamiliar corridor. She blinked her large brown eyes in response to the unfamiliar sight and thought that she should by now have arrived in the corridor, where her little brother's nursery was located. She looked behind her to the corridor she had previously walked through and she felt dread rise within her, as she felt no familiarity at the appearance of that corridor either. Her uncle's residence was large and had many winding hallways. Mrs. McClaren had told them at their arrival, that her uncle had apparently ensured that her family and her were assigned chambers that were as close as possible to the main stairwell, as people who were unfamiliar could easily get lost in the infinite maze of corridors in Clifton Manor. She had been so lost in thought that she had ventured deeper and deeper into the house, further away from the central staircase with the large grandfather clock in its midst and she had lost her way in the maze. She looked around her surroundings with alarm and she looked at the crème coloured walls with accusation, blaming them for her misfortunes. She decides to walk on to continue in her path, hoping that she would somehow find her way back to her room or to the main stairwell. She walked on and was perceptive to her surroundings, any musings about her life since her father's death had been completely taken off her mind. She looked at the portraits on the walls, which displayed the faces of proud individuals clad in historic uniforms- either buttoned, military overcoats or ornamented, flowing gowns and they all looked down at her and observed her as she moved through the hallway. She was just about to turn the corner, when she came to a halt before a large set of double doors in a shade of mahogany that was only slightly lighter than her hair. She stepped closer to the door and with her small finger she traced the cold wooden carving of a wallflower. She saw that light was seeping out from under the crack between the door and the ground and immediately she assumed that one of her uncle's maids or man-servants were there. She decided to knock on the door and enter and perhaps find someone who was more familiar with the manor, willing to help her find herself in the maze. So with slight trepidation, she grabbed the golden knob and with the knuckles of her right hand she knocked on the door and without awaiting an answer she opened the door and entered the room.

The walls of the room she entered were lined with bookcases that went from the ground until up to the ceiling and which's shelves were packed with books, which's differently coloured spines and rows of alternating colours they created (almost like a rainbow she had at first thought), contrasted greatly with the monochrome ebony decoration of the rest of the room. The northern facing wall sported a large, wide bay window and she thought that without it and the light that filtered through the large, stained glass the room would have been quite dark and ominous in its appearance. To her right there was an extinguished fireplace, which was lined with rows of marble and a shelf over the heath, which held an old, wooden clock with golden details and on the wall above it hung a picture of a woman. For a moment, she was spellbound by the illustration she gazed at. It depicted a beautiful woman with mahogany hair and she had been overjoyed at perceiving that the woman's hair shade closely resembled her own. The woman's eyes were closed and she had her head tipped up slightly with an expression of relaxation and serenity. The woman was clad in red dress with a green cloak and she had laid her hands on her lap and her red lips were slightly parted. At closer inspection she discovered a bird with feathers the same shade of the woman's dress flying toward the woman, close to her lap and the palms of her hands carrying three yellow flowers in its beak and a halo around its head. She cocked her head, as she gazed upon the woman and her beatific beauty and momentarily she was spell-bound. Then she perceived that a pair of eyes were studying her and she gazed to her left away from the portrait and toward the man, who was sat behind a heavy, bulky wooden table.

She looked at the middle-aged man, who had his reading glasses perched low on his big nose and was looking at her over the rim of his glasses. She immediately started shuffling on her feet, as she perceived the impassive, questioning stare of the man on her form, which only ceased shortly when she saw his eyes flicker to the painting of the woman she had previously been so in awe of and then back to her but was otherwise unrelenting. She saw him furrow his brows slightly when his eyes came to rest back on her, almost as if he was disbelieving of something that he had seen. He had a stern face that was used to frowning, she thought. His skin was wrinkled around the corners of his mouth. His eyes were glassy and cold and of deep shade of emerald and he had long sideburns, which had started greying at their tips. This was probably her uncle Walter, and while she did not know how she realized that, she was more than assured that it was indeed him. She did not know how she had imagined this elusive man to look like. If she had made an image of him before she had met him, it had all but been extinguished for her mind as he had such a distinctive face. She thought that perhaps it was capable of showing a lot of kindness and that it could be as jovial as her father's had been, for she could see the sibling's resemblance, but at the moment it was frozen in that solemn expression.

She quickly remembered herself and dropped her gaze to the ground, slightly ashamed that she had been staring at him so blatantly. She once more shuffled on her feet uncomfortably and she felt blood rise to her cheeks and colour them pink and she said in a low, but polite voice: „I'm sorry for the intrusion, sir. I lost my way. Do you know where the staircase is from here?"

After a few, long excruciating seconds she heard his deep, slightly raspy voice answer her: „Just follow the corridor and then turn to the left at the next corner and you'll be there."She nodded her head slightly and shyly thanked him and just as she was about to turn on her heel and close the door behind her, she heard his voice once more address her: „Why do you always carry that bag up and down with you?"

In response to his question, her hands came to rest on the leather handle of her bag. It was one of Bucky's old messenger bags from when he had only been about a year older than she was now. He had purchased a new bag last year and had wanted to rid himself of this one and she, who had always loved the coarse texture of the old leather had asked him to give it to her. She would never part with this bag, her uncle had been right in his observation of that aspect. She turned back to him and without lifting her gaze off the floor, she opened the brazen latch of the bag and retrieved an old, slightly tattered white hardback book, which's pages were yellowing and thinning with the frequency of use. She took the book that was so dear to her for it was a reminder to her of her father and stretched it out in front of her, almost as if she had done something forbidden and was waiting for him to admonish her.

She heard him rise off his chair and heard the sound of his steps, as he approached her and while she felt the urge to gaze up at him, she did not do so and kept her gaze studiously trained on the lace of her white socks. He came to a stop before her and she felt him dislodge the book out of her hands. Once he had grasped the book she let her hand fall to her side and she nervously wrung her hands, her knuckles white from the pressure she exercised upon them.

„The tale of Mr. Tod,"she heard his deep voice state with an undefinable emotion lacing his words. She wondered if he perhaps thought her silly for carrying the children's book up and down with. Holding onto it like a prized gem or an invaluable treasure, which it ultimately was for her. She treasured the book. It comforted her and left her feeling as if her father had not completely abandoned her. She felt a need to justify herself in front of her uncle's eyes, so she stated with her dulcet voice: „It was papa's favorite."A few seconds seemed to stretch eternally long and then she heard him state: „I know."She finally gathered the courage to look up at the man and saw him smiling down sadly and rubbing his thumb over the place where the illustration of Mr. Tod looking over the wooden gate was. And as she looked at her uncle's despondent and nostalgic expression she could not help but wonder if he too did not see this book as invaluable.

He looked at her through his glasses and his eyes were testing, as he asked: „You like to read?"She nodded her head vehemently and she felt a small smile of excitement light her features, as she stated: „Yes, Peter Rabbit, Benjamin Bunny, Tommy Kitten, Peter Pan. I love them all."She saw him nod his head and purse his lips and then he turned from her and went to retrieve an old leather bound book from one of his shelves. After that he once more approached her and handed it to her. She felt the weight of the book in her palm and her thumbs graced the worn leather surface. In golden letters stood the title 'The Merry Adventures of Robin Hood by Howard Pyle'. She let her fingers ghost over the golden letters almost reverently and smiled, as she felt the indentation into the leather. She looked up at him and smiled brightly and she asked: „For me?"She heard him chuckle softly and nod his head: „It is a merry book about a local hero. Come to the study same time next week and tell me what you thought of it."

She nodded her head and turned on her heel, assuming that he had dismissed her, when she heard him state before she closed the heavy oaken door behind her: „It is rumoured that Robin Hood lived in the same woods that surround the Manor."She looked back at him and saw that his impassive mask had returned and that his face was once more severe like stone, save for the mischievous fleeting glint in his eyes. She felt excitement rise within her and as soon as she closed the door behind her she ran.

She ran out of the manor and into the dense growth of the forest. She ran through the forest, jumping over branches over crouching, stumbling over her feet at the speed she was going in. She ran and took no notice that her skirt was getting torn and her legs and clean white were being sprayed with mud and she would surely be rebuked by her mother later. She ran until she reached a clearing in the forest and found a cave on the outskirts of the defoliated patch. She quickly ventured into the cave and lay herself down on the mossy ground. She came back every day of the following week and as she lay on the soft foliage of the woods, as she read about the valiant Robin Hood and his band of merry men. Soon she knew and loved them all- the powerful Little John, the courageous Will Scarlet, the musical Allan A Dale and the sly Friar Tuck. She read about Little John and his quarterstaff toppling Robin into the water, about Robin winning the golden arrow at Nottingham's archery contest, and about the numerous times the Sheriff was outsmarted in his attempts to capture Robin. She read about the malicious and avaricious Sheriff of Nottingham and rooted against him. She read about fair Maid Marian and admired her witty nature. She read about Guy of Gisborne clad in his distinctive horse-hide, the Sheriff's employed bounty hunter and soon Ballad 118 became her favourite:

_A sword and a dagger he wore by his side,_

_Of manye a man the bane;_

_And he was clad in his capull-hyde_

_Topp and tayll and mayne_

'_I dwell by dale and downe,' quoth hee,_

'_And Robin to take I'me sworne;_

_And when I am callèd by my right name_

_I am Guy of good Gisborne._

* * *

_Sherwood Forest in Nottinghamshire, England, 1168_

He was walking through the thick green growth of Sherwood Forest. It was still the early hours of morning and the dew still hung heavily in the dawn atmosphere with droplets running down the green foliage, which surrounded him from all angles. As he walked through the woods abutting his lands on this early spring morning, he silently observed how singular rays of light would filter through defoliated patches in the dense roof of leaves above him and would shine down at the earthy ground beneath his feet selectively. He felt at peace, as he walked through the forest and most importantly he felt carefree.

Carefree... despite his young age that was not a sensation he had experienced as frequently as might be expected. His father had left to go fight in the Holy Lands three years ago and for all this time, Guy had been responsible for the lands he'd left behind in need of stewardship. For three years Guy'd had to take the weight of responsibility onto his shoulders and watch his father's lands. He had experienced and monitored three harvests and every year he was loath to do it, because it was such an excruciatingly wearisome task that carried such innate sense of importance. Guy'd had to learn quickly how to come to terms with droughts and lack of yield in harvests. Guy'd had to quickly learn how to properly discipline disobedient serfs and he'd had to learn that to be a proper lord over a land one could not show any indication of laxness, but stern and severe constantly. So Guy had been plagued by responsibility since the day his father met and it not only sprung from his stewardship over the Gisborne estate, but also concerning his mother and his younger sister.

His mother had been morose for the last three years. The departure of his father, her husband and her subsequent worry over his safety and his life, while fighting Saracens in the Holy Land negatively impacting her demeanour. Not even the birth of her daughter a few months later had brightened her constantly downcast brow and during this time Guy had often watched his mother across the dining table during meal times and he had silently yearned for his mother's happiness. He would still at times yearn for the beatific woman that had used to sing French nursery rhymes to him before he went to sleep, the woman who had gifted him his first dagger. The woman who had from early on taught him that a woman's forgiveness could be easily bargained by regaling her with a pretty trinket. The woman, who had taught Guy to always value the lady who would be by his side. The woman who Guy remembered as cheerful, since Lady Ghislaine of Gisborne's bell-like laughter had often travelled through the entirety of the Gisborne Lands, but who Guy was now hard-pressed to ever see smiling. Even that late summer's day, when he had been overlooking the serfs on the plantations and his horse had been startled causing Guy to fall and delight his little sister Isabella because he had ended up sat on the floor with the horse's tail hanging like a curtain over his face, even then his mother's lips had remained stoic thin lines on her beautiful but sad face.

But lately, Guy had been able to see cracks in his mother's sad façade. The woman, who Guy could only categorize as sullen and mournful, judging by her behaviour in the last few years, now seemed... lighter, more content, less troubled. And Guy did not understand what had brought this sudden change about, what had caused this effect on his mother, the same effect Guy had only expected would be achieved by his father's arrival. Perhaps Guy should have questioned this, should have questioned why his mother now seemed to smile more often in a day than she had smiled in the last two years. Perhaps he should have wondered why his mother now preferred to go on walks and rides saying that the beautiful summer mornings were too precious to waste, when only three months ago she had refused to even leave the house even though, in Guy's opinion, the spring mornings had been just as handsome as the summer mornings. Perhaps he should have even been suspicious, because Guy disliked anything that could not be explained by visible, tactile facts. He was stern and disciplinary concerning this. He had to be, otherwise he would not have been a proper steward over his father's lands and they would have gone to shambles after the first harvest in his father's absence. While, Guy had been unable to explain his mother's sudden change of mood, he could not help but feel happy that it had happened regardless. He could not help but feel happy that the woman he adored had become her happy and glorious self once more, that her happiness, this familiar aspect of the time before his father's departure had returned. He could not help but feel carefree and that was something he did not feel, despite his young age.

Guy rarely felt carefree. He was too busy being steward and caring proudly, carefully, attentively over his father's lands to be carefree. He had taken his father's wishes seriously and due to his mother's melancholy, the entire brunt of responsibility over the family estate had fallen on his shoulders. He knew how important it was to keep his lands orderly, not only to incur his father's pride but also to sustain his family, his mother, his little sister, who loved him, despite accusing him of being to serious and solemn. His little sister loved him and he would take care to spend some time with her, even though he felt that the days were too short for all he wished to achieve. He would arrive in their Manor, while the sun was setting and he would not even be able to close the door behind him, when he would look over his shoulders and he would Isabella running towards him on unsteady and shaky young infant's legs and he would catch her, while she would proceed to squeal in delight into his ear. He would spend most of his free time with her, as the other children, namely Robin of Locksley, found him too serious, too grown-up, too solemn. And while at times it would hurt him, when the other children refused to play with him, he was more than content with Isabella and his estate.

And with Sherwood Forest.

Often Guy would wander through Sherwood Forest, either on foot, or on horseback and in the silent quietude of the woods, he would find serenity and peace. He could forget his worries for a short, blissful time interval; he could forget his painfully serious sense of responsibility. When he went exploring through Sherwood Forest, he would forget everything and he would simply focus on his surroundings. Like he did now. He stepped over branches and threaded on decayed leaves, hearing the dry crackling of the foliage beneath his feet, he felt the moist earth give out a little beneath his boots and felt himself sinking an inch of a centimetre. He walked through the woods and periodically he felt the sunshine on his brow from where the rays penetrated the thick leafy roof. He would feel like the most brave adventurer, as he would crouch beneath bushes and pick up fallen branches, swinging them over his head as a mock sword, imaging that he was beside his father in the Holy Lands. He knew Sherwood inside and out and he was proud to state that he would be able to find his way through the endless woods even in the most wild storm.

But today he had followed a path that was unfamiliar to him, and when he had first started he had felt an innate sense of excitement over the novelty of this, but he had walked and walked and the path seemed infinite and his legs were starting to ache and he longed to turn back and was only prevented from doing so, due to his incurable obstinacy. And propelled by this, he continued to walk deeper and deeper into the woods.

Soon he arrived at a clearing and he looked at the defoliated patch, which had a stream running through the western area of it, with the proud expression of a discoverer. He looked at the patch and its lush, green meadow, which was brightly illuminated by the midday sun. He ventured into the patch and so he found a rocky cavern, which only served to further endear this location to Guy. With infantile curiosity, he ventured into the cavern and lay down on the soft moss, which lined the ground of the cave. For years to come, this place would prove a comfort for Guy of Gisborne.

* * *

New installment in this saga. Again I am sorry if you guys find these chapters boring and unnecessary, but I do have a fixed a idea concerning the plot and ist development and I think that these chapters are important concerning the characters and their personality and development. Tell me what you think.

QOTW: What was your favorite childhood book?

Mine was 'The Velveteen Rabbit'


	4. Listening to an August Summer Night

_"All the variety, all the charm, all the beauty of life is made up of light and shadow."-Anna Karenina, Leo Tolstoy_

* * *

_Clifton Manor, England, 1931_

Thomas Buchanan was a shy, sensitive boy with a weak disposition.

That was the first thing she heard about the son of Clara Buchanan. That was the first description that had been given to her when Mrs. Moore, the Vicar's wife, had come by to take the afternoon tea with her mother. She had listened to the two conversing women, while she had sat beside Johnny and had handed him coloured pencils so that he could finish his paintings of ponies. She had been listening while Mrs. Moore had described the poor boy's constant sickly condition to her mother, over her second cup of Earl Grey. While she had been handing Johnny the light blue pencil so that he could colour the sky above his three-legged grey pony, she had heard Mrs. Moore tell her mother how they would always pray for poor Tommy Buchanan, especially when he'd catch his third cold of the season. She listened intently, as Mrs. Moore told her mother, while eating one of Mrs. McClaren's scrumptious cream teas, that Clara Buchanan would rarely allow her boy to leave the house, in fear that the variable conditions of the weather would further weaken his already precarious state of health.

It was a week later that she first saw Thomas Buchanan.

She had gone to the Saturday market with Mrs. McClaren, which was located in the church square of Nottingham. The stern governess had only allowed her to accompany her on weekly chore, after much insistence on her part. The historical book that her uncle had given her about the Nottingham city earlier in the week had greatly intrigued her and she had longed to see if the pictures she had looked at for so long in her secret cave during the week truly corresponded with reality. And since neither her mother nor Bucky had wanted to drive out all the way to Nottingham, she had pleaded with her uncle's disciplinary governess, promising the grey-haired solemn woman that she would help her most efficiently with carrying the groceries. And after two days of insistence, Mrs. McClaren had caved and had begrudgingly allowed her to come with her. As soon as their auto mobile had passed the city gates of the county's capital she had loosened her seat belt and had looked out of the window, intent on not missing a sight of the city that was known throughout all of England for its fantastical myths of one of the greatest heroes that had prevailed throughout time. She had looked out the window and the light blue bow in her dark brown hair had fluttered in the wind and she'd had to hold her straw hat tightly clutched on her head, in fear that she would incur the governess' and her mother's wrath if it flew away. She had greedily, almost like a sponge, absorbed the sights that met her; her smile had widened when she and Mrs. McClaren had been walking through the market square and they had come by a green, weathered statue of a crouching archery man and in the paled inscriptions she had been able to make out that this was a statue dedicated to the hero of Howard Pyle's novel. She had walked through the market square with her mother's bread basket in her hand and she had looked over the sea of charcoal grey slate roofs and she had been able to make out the silhouette of towers of Nottingham Castle, located on an elevated hill, hidden by dense green growth that surrounded it. She had smiled and immediately she had imagined that she was one of the several peasants, who would attend the weekly market in the Old Market Square of Nottingham and would look up at the looming fortress fearfully, wondering what the odious and cruel Sheriff of Nottingham was plotting next. She imagined that the guards of Nottingham, the Sheriff's brainless inferiors, would harass and ill-treat a helpless peasant, wishing to exploit him monetarily after the Sheriff had once more raised the taxes, so that he could afford a new horse. Robin Hood and his band of merry men would arrive and with his fast and precise arrow, he would stop an injustice from happening and outsmart the Sheriff like many times before. And she would stand there among the mass, brimming with admiration and she would cheer for their hero, for their only hope in King Richard's absence.

She had walked through the Market square consistently keeping the looming fortress in her viewpoint and she had stopped once she had gotten to a point, where she had a magnificent view of the castle detailed in her stories and she had been even able to make out the high tower, which seemed to shoot to the heavens and which she imagined Robin Hood had been once imprisoned in. She was just wondering, if Robin Hood had perhaps walked over the same cobble stone, she stood on now and had hugged the bread basket closer to her chest, while she had felt the late summer wind blow through her mahogany hair, causing it to fan out behind her. She had stood in quiet awe, looking at the castle she had read so much about, while Mrs. McClaren was at the cheese stand at her right and she had been so absorbed in her scrutiny of the castle, that she had not noticed that the winds had started to blow stronger, almost unusually strong considering the season. She only took note, when an intense gust of wind lifted her straw hat off her head and she was left to watch, wide-eyed, as it flew across the square almost tauntingly. She felt alarm and proceeded to run after her fleeing headpiece almost frantically, in fear of her mother's reaction were she to lose the hat, that her aunt had given her at the start of this spring season. She watched as the head flew up and down, as it seemed to come down to the cobblestone ground almost as if it had reached its destination or had tired of flying, only for it to be picked up by another wind gust, when she came closer. She was sure that she made the most peculiar image, running after her straw hat with one hand outstretched and the other clutching the bread basket that was almost as big as her torso and were she not so absorbed with the notion of catching her hat, she would've surely cringed as she was no doubt providing the gossip at Mrs. Moore's next afternoon tea. She had surely run the length of the square, when she saw her hat rest on the ground terminally, as the winds stopped blowing and her mahogany hair finally came to rest on her slim shoulders after having been blown savagely around her head, like a hardy halo. She was looked at the straw headpiece on the ground with accusation, panting slightly after the physical exertion with her cheeks marred bright-red, when she saw someone pick up her head piece. She looked up startled and was met with the sight of a boy. She noted that he was unusually pale. It was not the delicate, ivory quality of her own skin; the boy's cheeks were of a sickly white shade and paired with his blonde hair and his crystal pale blue eyes, he was one of the fairest people that she had ever seen in her life. She clutched her bread basket in both her hands, almost holding it protectively against her chest, though she was not scared of this boy. How could she when he looked down at her with his pale blue eyes and she could clearly see sadness, but also curiosity in the blue depths, which ran across her face and her savage hair, almost as if he were trying to memorize her. She did not know why, but as she looked up at the pale boy, who was only perhaps a year older than her, but who was tall and lanky for his age, almost reminding her of the scarecrow of the Wizard of Oz the story her uncle had read to her only a few days ago, she felt tenderness rise in her chest and her rosy lips twisted into a bright smile. She saw his eyes widen slightly at her amiable expression and he immediately looked down, as if he had been embarrassed that he had been caught staring and held out her straw hat to her. She took it from him tenderly, before she breathed lowly: "Thank you!" She saw the boy nod his head, but he kept his gaze stuck on the floor. She was just about to ask him for his name, when she heard Mrs. McClaren's raspy, voice call her name. She bid the boy goodbye quietly, before she turned on her heel and ran toward the fuming and disapproving governess. All the while, she felt his warm gaze on her back.

It was during her mother's first annual spring tea party that she found out the identity of her Socrates Strawman and that she saw Thomas Buchanan for the second time.

Her mother had organised a lavish tea party to celebrate the start of the year's spring season, especially after they had just endured a most ravishing and harsh winter, where there had been days that the people of Nottingham and the inhabitants of Clifton Manor had been unable to leave the house for a duration of a few consecutive days, because of the bereaved and arctic temperatures. She had stood with Johnny at the cake table, her right hand clutched in her little brother's sticky one and her other hand nervously pulling on the hem of her new brown polka-dot dress, that her mother had insisted she wear. Her mother had bought it for her, when she and Bucky had visited her aunt last month, and though she would never dare breathe a word for fear of hurting her mother, she had disliked the dress. It had been too gaudy for her with the intricate lace on its hem and the fragile silky fabric it was made of. It was impractical with its flaring skirt and the white belt that went around the waist and she generally disliked impractical clothes, because it hindered her from running around in Sherwood Forest, one of her favorite past times. And it was uncomfortable, because the fabric felt stiff and unrelenting on her form and she kept shifting in it. Yet she had thanked her mother for the gift and had stowed it away in her wardrobe, hoping that she would not have to wear it so soon. But then her mother had entered her room this morning and she had been so overwhelmed with her mother's wish to dress her for her the tea party that she had been unable to refuse her, just like uncle Walter had been unable to refuse her mother, when she had joyously asked for his permission to host the tea party in the Manor's vast gardens. They bot had been unable to refuse her mother, because this was the first time, since her father's untimely demise, that she had resembled the woman she had been before her father had passed. Beautiful, excited and brimming with anticipatory joy. So she had allowed her mother to dress her and for an undefined amount of time, she had sat still like a stone on the wooden chair and had allowed her mother to dress her like a doll and to curl her hair and fastening it with a white bow, so that her hair hung heavily on her head and only added to her discomfort. But she tried not to show it. She tried not to show that she felt horribly out of place in this exuberant atmosphere of crème coloured tents and ornate, whimsical pastries and of white, expensive china with golden and lilac decorations on it, that she even feared to touch for fear of breaking it. She felt incredibly uncomfortable in this environment of polite talk with no real substantial topic, she felt uncomfortable among this mass of carefully schooled expression and of invulnerable, polite masks. So she held onto her little brother's hand like it was a lifeline and she stood with him before the cake table, because he had started fidgeting on her lap earlier and had pointed at the frosted cake tower with his chubby fingers and had demanded for a piece of it. She heard the blood rushing in her ears and beneath the sound of this stream, she could hear her mother's boisterous laugh and the whispers of conversation from the other grown ups and she looked up at these tall, composed towers of people and for the first time she had understood how Wendy Darling had felt, when before she had never been able to fathom why she would leave Neverland and Peter Pan. Wendy Darling had grown up in this type of society. In the society of dinner parties, and of tea and ornate pastries, and of grown ups. Wendy Darling and her had grown up in a society that consisted of polite grown ups and as a child, one felt incredibly out of place. And right now, she longed to grow up. Just like Wendy Darling had. And she knew that this wish had bee ingrained in her, since her birth, that she had been bred to grow up and even if she went to Neverland she would abandon Peter eventually so she could grow up. Unconsciously, her grip on her little brother's hand tightened and she was left to stare at the empty space before her with incredulity at her discovery and was only pushed out of her thoughts, when she heard a commotion behind the tent closest to her. She heard the sound of taunting laughter and she felt alarmed. She had scooped her little brother up into her arms and she had quickly moved toward the source of the sound only to be met with the most cruel sight. With a wide-eyed gaze, she watched as a group of children led by Andrew Walk, the son of her right-hand neighbour Mrs. Walk, taunted the pale boy she had met in the market that day when her hat had tried to escape from her. She had seen him in his little, blue suit when he had first arrived and she had found out he was Thomas Buchanan, when Mrs. Buchanan had come up to greet them and she had felt excitement that he was there, because she had thought about the kind, but sad boy she had met in the market. She had thought about him, but had been left to feel immense disappointment, when he seemed to avoid her gaze and kept studiously at his mother's side. Seeing his conspicuous avoidance, she had felt embarrassed and discouraged from going up to him. She was however shook when Andrew Walk went up to Thomas and pushed him, so that the pale boy stumbled and fell back. She immediately moved toward him, just as the other, cruel children were moving off laughing at poor Thomas. She moved toward him and put down little Johnny, who was looking at Thomas with intrigued curiosity in her eyes. She stood before him for a few seconds, but he continued to look down in shame of what she had witnessed. She pursed her lips and felt sympathy for him, she saw that his glasses had fallen off his face and lay forgotten at his feet, while he looked down with his cheeks vibrantly red, which was brought out even further because of his pallor. She crouched down to his level and picked up the glasses before dusting them off on her dress and holding them out, just like he had done with her hat, expecting him to take them. But he was catatonic, and she worried that the fall had winded him so greatly or if it was just with the shame of her having experienced it, or if it was because he feared that she would feel pity for him. She wished to comfort, to tell him that she didn't feel pity for him, that she loathed and avoided that sentiment when she had seen her aunt walking into her room, while she haphazardly stumbled over the words of the Tale of Peter Rabbit and her aunt had cooed and had looked at her in a way that had left her bristling with resentment. Seeing that he wouldn't respond, she gingerly put the glasses back on his face and at the caress of her knuckles on his cheekbones, he looked up at her incredulously and she smiled down at him and breathed: "It's alright."

And that was how her friendship with Tommy Buchanan started.

Even though the other children still mocked him, because he was sickly for the majority of the time and because his mother would forbid him to go out and play ball with the other neighbourhood boys, she valued him because he had a sweet and compassionate, disposition and he told the most fantastical stories. He had been delighted to find out that she loved the stories of Peter Pan and of The Wizard of Oz, stories that he too loved, though he never approved of her belief that he was the Straw man to her Dorothy. They would spend the afternoons together and with an excitement that was perhaps uncharacteristic for his fragility, he told her about fairy tales, about a land called Middle Earth and of Hobbits and elves and dwarves and wizards; he told her about the little red riding hood, about snow white and her band of seven dwarves and she would laugh delightedly at seeing how his cheeks became pink in his excited narration of the stories and how he wildly waved his hand about to reiterate his words. She in turn would tell him about Robin Hood and his band of merry men and of Maid Marian, of Prince John and the Sheriff of Nottingham and he would always listen to her narration with rapt fascination and she would feel such pride at his interest. It was only three weeks into their friendship when she decided to show him her secret cave. He was the only one she had told about her discovery of her secret place. And he would remain to be the only one. They would spend their afternoons sat cross-legged on the soft moss ground and they would tell each other stories, while inventing new ones and embellishing old tales. At times, she would take the books she got loaned from her uncle to her afternoons with Tommy and she would read to him in a loud, clear voice telling him about Emil who was sedated with laced chocolate on a train and was robbed of his grandmother's money and who proceeds to solve the crime in a fast-paced and intriguing tale. Other times, Tommy would tell her the fairy tales his mother would recite to him before he went to bed. One day he had been telling her about a beautiful princess, who had been cursed by an evil fairy to prick her finger on a needle and fall into a hundred-year-long sleep along with the people of her kingdom. They would only be saved if a valiant prince came to her rescue and gave her a kiss, then she would awake and with her all her people and they would live in eternal prosperity. She had interrupted Tommy and had asked him: "What's a kiss, Tommy?" He had looked at her wide-eyed and for a moment, he had not said anything and silence had enveloped them, before he had averted his gaze from her inquisitive brown eyes and had looked away mumbling: "It's not easy to explain. It's something that is better shown." She had cocked her head and had pursed her lips, before saying acquiescently: "Show me then." His gaze had once more been riveted to her and his cheeks had started to glow bright-red in embarrassment, while he started to stammer. She looked at him with slight impatience and then she saw him start to lean closer to her and she held out her hand, expecting him to give her the kiss. He had looked down at her outstretched hand questioningly and would have raised his eyebrows. After a few seconds of expectant silence, she would've broken it and asked: "Well, are you gonna give the kiss?" Tommy had looked down, once more mortified and she would've later teased him for his shyness. But he had retrieved something from his pocket and had taken her outstretched palms and placed the cool, metallic object in it before closing her hand over it, like she was holding a most precious treasure and her eyes had lighted with excitement and she had smiled and bitten her lower lips in anticipatory joy. He had let go off her hand and she had opened it to find a small, shiny thimble on her palm and she had looked up at Tommy in confusion and he had explained it to her: "This is your first kiss. It may look like a thimble, but if you believe it is a kiss, it will be. You must promise to keep it, it's precious, it's your first kiss." She had smiled up at him gratefully, but then her smile had dropped and she had lowered her head in shame and had said: "I don't have a kiss to give you. I'm sorry." And while he had assured her that it was fine, that he was happy to simply be able to give her her fist kiss, she had not been able to shake her disappointment. But she became resolved to keep the kiss that Tommy had given her and treasure it. And she did, the years passed and the world around her changed as did she, but the kiss would hang around her neck like a religious pendant.

Tommy Buchanan had been one of the few people, she would later consider as friends and one she would hold dear for all her life. But in retrospective, she realized that she had known so little about him. It was only years later, when she took her afternoon Earl Grey Tea with Mrs. Buchanan in her uncle's study and she sat in front of the pale, wilted woman, whose health would decline dramatically in the years to follow, her wilting like a spring flower under grief. It was only years later that she would talk to Mrs. Buchanan and the woman would tell her that Tommy had come back that fateful day in the market, more excited than she had ever seen him, enthusiastically telling her about the angel he had seen in the market with warm, brown eyes like pools of chocolate and with a cloud on mahogany flying behind her head. It was only later that she found out that Tommy had secretly enjoyed her calling him her Scarecrow and that Mrs. Buchanan told her that Tommy had loved her. That he had loved her, despite his young age. But that day in the cavern, when Tommy had given her her first kiss, she had not cared. She had not cared about any of that, because she had been disappointed that she could not have given him a kiss as well.

She only returned the kiss two years later, after a bereaved winter. She took his pale cold hand and enclosed a wooden thimble around it, as she stood beside his wooden casket.

* * *

_Gisborne Manor, England, 1173_

He could not sleep.

He shifted on his straw bad, while he heard Isabella's even breathing coming from beside him and he could not sleep. He stared up at the wooden ceiling of his chamber and he reflected on the happenings that had been so monumental that they seemed eons of time ago, but that had truly only occurred an hour ago. An hour ago, when he had stood on the elevated, wooden platform and the texture of the rope and chaffed his skin and he had looked at the impassive and indifferent faces of the assembled peasants and, even though, the lever had not yet been pushed he had felt asphyxiated. An hour ago, when he had almost hanged for that child's stupidity, when he had almost hanged when that arrogant, snot-nosed boy that was Robin of Locksley had put the blame of the accident with the fire wheel on him. The firewheel, that imposing and awe abiding structure that the returning crusaders had brought from the Holy Lands, the group of men who had returned from fighting the Saracens and who had been received with reverence and had become legends because of their service of bravery to the crown and to God. The group of men his father had not been amongst and which had lead Guy to a most crushing and shocking discovery. When the crusaders had first arrived like intimidating warriors of God on their horses and Guy had recovered from his awe at the sight of the men riding towards them with the sun behind them on the horizon like a glorious halo around their form, he had searched the group of men after the familiar form of his father. He searched and he searched and he had been unable to find his father and his insides had grown cold with dread. His father had not returned with the men he had set out with those long years ago. His father had not come back. His father, the man Guy had been proud of because he was serving their king in the Holy Lands, because he was fighting for the deific birthright of Christians, for his birthright, their birthright. And he had remained allegiant to his father, despite the time and distance that had separated them. Despite the fact that Guy could no longer recall the pitch of his father's voice, he could no longer recall if his father's eyes were blue like his or perhaps green like his sisters. Through all of that, he had still remained allegiant to his father- the brave knight, the deific defender, his idol, the man whose lands he had taken arduous efforts to care for, so that when he returned he found find them even more prosperous than when he had left and Guy would earn his hard-sought after recognition. But he had not been among the knights that had returned from the Holy Land. Sir Roger of Gisborne had been missing and it took only a few moments for Guy to come to the startling realization that he would not come back, that all his efforts and the responsibilities he had taken had been in vain. Perhaps not in vain, because his family, but his primary focus had been on fulfilling the promise he had given his father, days before he had ridden off to the Holy Lands, days before he had ridden off forever.

And he had been filled with bitterness and resentment. Not at his father, for he had died a hero's death. He had felt bitter that he had remained allegiant to a memory, to a ghost when he had so longed after his father, his father in his real form. He had maintained the image of his father, in face of the distance that had separated them. He had taken arduous efforts to maintain the image of his father upright and to convey that same image to Isabella, whom he wanted to treasure their father even though she had not once seen him. He had not forgotten his father- a man of glory and integrity.

But the same could not be said for every member of the Gisborne household.

He sneered resentfully, as he thought about the discovery he had made a few days ago. The discovery of his mother, which had subsequently destroyed the beatific and pious image he'd held of the woman. His discovery of her with the Lord of Locksley. One night a few months ago he had awoken and when he had looked out of his window, into the night he had seen the familiar form of his mother leaving Gisborne Manor and moving in the direction of the neighbouring Locksley Estate. Guy had been most disconcerted and every night at proximately the same time he had stood at his window to observed his mother, as she got on with her new habit. And then one night he had been tired of guessing the reason for his mother's nightly outings and he had followed her, only to find her in a passionate embrace with Robin of Locksley's widowed father. His mother, who he had thought to be the most pure of creatures and who had betrayed his father, had betrayed him. And as he had turned his back and run from his discovery of his mother's vileness, he remembered the words of their village priest, as he said: "Betrayal is the worst sin a man can commit. The most agonizing circles of hell are reserved for traitors."

And Guy knew this to be true, for no one could inflict the amount of pain he was in due to his discovery and not suffer for eternity. The woman, who had cared so lovingly for him during his early years, the woman he had categorized with the deific messengers from heaven, the woman who could do no wrong in his eyes and she had proven to be a vicious and treacherous creature. And Guy had started to think that if even his mother, whom he had thought of virtuous and angelic could betray him and his father, than surely everyone would. And that is how Guy's suspicion and wariness toward others began to grow, until it had festered into a gaping wound, which would prevent him to trust anyone and anyone's kindness and benignity.

But his father had returned. His father had returned at the exact right moment to save him, while the bailiff and the villagers had spurned for his death, after he had accused of firing the lighted arrow, which had truly been shot by that odious Robin of Locksley, who had let him take the blame after the firewheel had fallen on the village priest. His loyalty and allegiance toward his father had been rewarded when his father had come riding in with his horse, like a heavenly vision with his white attire contrasting against the dark tinge of the night and had saved him from an unsavoury fate. His father, the man whose image he had remained loyal to even when confronted with his possible demise in the Holy Lands. And his loyalty had been repayed when Sir Roger had returned from the dead, more powerful and imposing than Guy had remembered and he had reclaimed the Gisborne estate, which was once more under its rightful leader.

He turned to his side and faced the wall, as he felt his eyelids grow heavy with sleep. He was appeased and he was unburdened. His father had returned to his rightful place and soon everything would sort itself out, even his mother's treachery. He soon fell asleep to a dreamless rest.

He would not have slept so peacefully and self-assuredly had he not been blinded by his idolization of his father to such an extent that he had not seen that the man had returned sickly. He would not have slept so peacefully had he known that his father would bring only misery with his arrival. He would not have slept so calmly had he known the events that would occur in the days to come. Had he known that he would awake the next morning to a cacophony of voices and he would descend to find his father accused of leprosy. Had he known that he would have to witness his father's procession of shame, that he would have to witness that proud and self-assured man, who had been his idol his entire childhood struggling to exit a four-foot grave like a helpless child, effectively shattering Guy's idolized image of his father. Had he known his mother's plans to wed the Lord of Locksley. Had he known what he would do in his desperation to keep his father and to redeem his mother of her sins of adultery. Had he known to what extents he would go, what crimes he would commit, what fate awaited him and his sister, he would not have slept at all. He would have spent the rest of the night in a horrified daze.


	5. The World Closes in

_"You don't know how lucky you are not to have a heart. Hearts will never be practical until they can be made unbreakable."- The Wizard of Oz, L. Frank Baum_

* * *

_Clifton Manor, England, 1939_

Julia Curtis sat in the hardwood chair in her uncle's study, with her knees drawn to her chest and a copy of 'A Farewell to Arms' by Ernest Hemingway resting on her kneecaps, as she periodically turned the pages and chewed on her thumb, as her eyes cursored the black letters on the rough paper. Her eyes shone brightly and an affectionate small smile twisted her lips, as she read the familiar and to her beloved words: _"Maybe...you'll fall in love with me all over again." "Hell," I said, "I love you enough now. What do you want to do? Ruin me?" "Yes. I want to ruin you." "Good," I said. "That's what I want too." _She leafed through the remaining pages and scrunched her nose at her perception of how little was left for her to read of the story. She drew her knees tighter to her chest and rested her chin on her kneecaps, as she continued to read the tragic story of Catherine and the Tenente. And though she knew the end of the book, having read the story before, she could not help but to infantile wish that she would arrive at the end of Hemingway's narrative and be pleasantly surprised to find another fate for the lovers she rooted for, for Catherine. After having read the tale for the first time, she would with cynicism read the second book of the novel and the growing relationship between the two lovers, knowing what awaited them. Knowing their fate and silently cursing the author for depriving them of happiness. She had read the book for the first time and it had left a bitter taste in her mouth, and the lack of a happy ending had left her wide-eyed because she had not felt too grieved or surprised by it. She had felt... acceptance, perhaps even a confirmation of what she had known all along. The knowledge that happy endings are not normal, especially not in the times they were in now. In the times of the first world war, it would be almost ignorance to speak of happy endings, foolish to hope for them. No one could not expect a happy ending, especially after last week, September 3 1939, a date she would never forget for as long as she lived when she had heard their monarch's voice through the raspy static of the radio, as he addressed the nation.

_"The task will be hard. There may be dark days ahead, and war can no longer be confined to the battlefield, but we can only do the right as we see the right, and reverently commit our cause to God. If one and all we keep resolutely faithful to it, ready for whatever service or sacrifice it may demand, then with God's help, we shall prevail."_ She could clearly what she had been doing at that precise minute, at that precise second. Her whole family had been assembled in the living room adjacent to the dining hall. She had sat beside Johnny and had read with him the Jabberwocky poem of one of her favorite books. She had been helping him with the pronunciations of Carroll's unorthodox diction, while in the background she had perceived the smoky voice of her mother's favorite singer, as she lamented in french over her departed love. Her uncle had sat before her, in a black-leather cushioned chair, completing annotations, and occasionally looking at her and Johnny over the brim of his glasses, his expression almost resembling amused tenderness at the two siblings actions. Bucky had sat beside her mother, his head tipped back in exhaustion after having returned from work as a Latin teacher in a language school in Nottingham, occasionally sipping from his usual before-dinner brandy. The voice of the french woman had been cut off abruptly, only to be replaced with their newly-crowned king's one and he had announced, half an hour before dinner-time, that their country was once more at war.

She had not known how to feel. She had been borne a few years after the first World War had come to an end and so had not experienced it. All she knew about it was the knowledge she had gotten off her books. But living it and reading about it were two very different things, she knew that. She had only turned thirteen last April. She was young and fresh and still filled with the childish notion that happy endings were possible. The Tale of Peter Rabbit was still one of her favorite books. She would at times find herself looking out of her window, at the starry sky at night, searching for Peter Pan's silhouette in the distance. She was young and still in bloom, but she knew that what she read about, the trenches, the deaths, the disease, the misery. All those description were entirely different in a book, than in reality. She had not known how to feel and she had looked around her. Johnny had soon lost interest in their monarch's voice and had returned to looking at the illustration of the grinning Cheshire Cat, as he conversed with Alice. Bucky had sat up straight during the speech of King George VI and had listened intently with his elbows braced on his knees. Her mother's expression had been carefully, almost artificially blank, while her uncle's fountain pen had stopped its steady course on the paper and she had seen him look down with his pale blue eyes wide and his mouth pursed gravelly. She had not known how to feel and she did not know so even now, after enduring one week of Mrs. McClaren's solemn, worried silence, something that disconcerted her greatly because she was used to the governess' solemnity, but not to her worry especially after having grown up and believed her to be a stern and invulnerable woman. She had not known how to deal with Bucky's change of demeanor, with his sudden air of determination, which she had not interpreted, which she had refused to interpret. She had not known how to feel, but she had felt an urge, and she had felt such self-deprecation considering the serious nature of their country's current situation, but she had felt an urge to re-read Hemingway's 'A Farewell to Arms', the book Bucky had given her for her birthday last year. And she had found some sort of solace in the story, in reading the terrible conditions of the soldiers and amidst this, the love story between Catherine and Frederic.

She had once more found solace in her books and in her stories, something her mother would've scoffed at disapprovingly. Her mother already thought that she read too much and that now that she was slowly becoming a woman of marriageable age, that she should become less wilder, less savage, less hardy, less free. When she would arrive home from her daily visits to that secret cave in the Nottingham Forest, she would now be met with her mother's stern anger and chagrin, whereas before there had mainly been disinterest. And she knew her mother disapproved of the time she spent with her uncle, with the man who her mother deemed as eccentric, fearing that her only daughter would adopt her uncle's esoterism and would thus prove an unsuitable match for any eligible, well-to-do young man. She knew that her mother disapproved of her reading, that she thought that Julia should be learning skills that would prove suitable in the future her mother desired for her: as a wife. She knew that her mother thought her to live with her head in the clouds, always thinking about fairy tales and the love she encountered in these novels, which her mother had deemed to a nine-year-old version of herself, which had been left deflated at the elder woman's words, as 'entirely false and inappropriate'. Yet she could not help it. She loved books and these tales, because they allowed her to escape, to imagine a world, which she would have liked to live in, to imagine a world of fairies and of one's biggest dreams being fulfilled, such as a wooden puppet's wish to become a real boy. She would always read, she would read Emily Bronte's Wuthering Heights during New year's Eve and Dickens' A Christmas Carol on Christmas morning, usually after Johnny had jumped into her bed with her and awoken her, hours before breakfast so that she would read the tale of Ebeneezer Scrooge to him, and he would laugh in delight, as she said in her best rendition of the grumpy man's voice 'Bah, humbug!'. She would read Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice during warm, late spring days after having returned from her walk in the nearby park and having observed the courting couples and she would dream about one day finding her own Mr. Darcy, who would love her despite their differences, despite their temper, despite the inequality of their social status. She had lost count of how many, she had recited to Johnny before he went to sleep in a loud and clear voice the timeless words: "In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit."

It was her uncle, who had spurned her love for books, which's intensity she now shared with him, almost as their personal secret. Ever since he had seen her with that old, tattered copy of The Tale of Mr. Tod and he had given her that leather bound book about Robin Hood, it had become a tradition for them, that her uncle would loan her books from his vast collection and she would read them reverently and one week later she would return to his study and they would discuss her liking of the book. It had been him, who had given her an old copy of 'Pride and Prejudice' and 'Sense and Sensibility' during her ninth birthday. It had been him, who had shown her the world of Alice and had introduced her to Carroll's Wonderland. It had been him, who had shown her the tragic story of Jay Gatsby and had her sympathizing with the man and his broken dreams. It had been him, who had read to her, during her first Christmas at Clifton Manor, his long-time favorite story and he had done an impression of Mr. Scrooge that she had been longing to imitate. He would read to her at times, when she had been younger, he had read her the story of a velveteen rabbit and his journey against the prejudice it experienced with newer and more modern toys. As she became older, he read her Dickens. Always Charles Dickens. It was his favorite. He told her of Pip and the great expectations that were thrust upon him, of Miss Havisham and her white dress. He read her 'A Tale of Two Cities', on Easter mornings. He had made her love books with a fierce, fearsome and genuine passion and as he saw her joy at his most prized possessions, she knew that he had come to care for her. That he cared for her like he would've cared for a child of his own, especially when she got the same twinkle of amusement in her eyes, that she had gotten when she had been an imp of nothing at five, when he uttered the words of one of his favorite characters in the perfect imitation of the shrewd, grating voice that Dickens had described, when he said 'Bah, humbug!" when her mother would talk about news from London, that she had gotten from Julia's aunt Cecilia. He was still an aloof man, who was solemn most of the time, more than was good for him, and if Julia had not known him better, she would've surely likened him to Ebeneezer Scrooge with his pointed nose and his aquiline, stern features. Yet she had gotten through to him, because of her love for books. She knew that she was to him like Tiny Tim had been to Scrooge. That she had thawed some of the barriers he had put between himself and the rest of the world. Especially when one evening during dinner her mother had been criticizing her for her habit of reading and her uncle had for the first time in all the years that she had known him, raised his voice and told her mother to leave her alone.

She was shaken out of her thoughts by her uncle's raspy voice and she looked up at him, while having stared blankly at the same page for an indeterminate amount of time, as he addressed her, his raspy voice accompanied by the continuous scratch of his pen across the paper: "You have been reading the same page for ten minutes now." She looked down sheepishly, as he continued: "What is on your mind, child?" "What has been on everyone's mind since last week, uncle." The scratching of the pen against the rough of the paper ceased and Julia saw her uncle furrow his brows together, before his shoulders dropped in a silent sigh. "That damned war." she heard him mutter and she raised herself off the chair and rounded the table before she put her arms around her uncle's shoulder and dropped her head on the crook of his neck. She felt him stiffen in her arms, still unused to her displays of affection, having previously been withdrawn, but after a few seconds of hesitation he relaxed and patted her forearms. "A bunch of avaricious men fighting over some lost cause or another," she heard him mutter in her arm and she smiled sadly at his words, while her eyes came to rest on a picture lying on her uncle's desk, that she had previously never seen before. It depicted a man in medieval clothing, that stood on a bridge with the background of the Ponte Vecchio of Florence in the background, while he looked at a dark-haired woman, clad in white garb, with clear and unconcealed longing and admiration in his eyes, while she passed him by, looking off into the distance, almost as if she was seeing something that she longed for and walked toward it. She felt herself lean forward to inspect the painting more closely and she said in some sort of trance, invoked by the artistry: "What is this uncle?" She felt his chuckles vibrate through his chest, as he explained to her: "I just received this from one of my friend's in Tuscany last week. It is a print of Holiday's 'Dante and Beatrice'. The woman on the painting above the hearth is also Beatrice." He pointed to the painting of the beatific that had left her so in awe, when she had first entered her uncle's study eight years ago and which caught her eyes more often than not. She whispered: "What is their story?" "Why would you assume they have one.", her uncle questioned while looking at the scene before them, at the man who certainly treasured the beatific woman, at that same woman who looked before her with purpose, with wisdom. She looked back at the stern, elderly man before her and smiled mischievously down at him and said: "There usually is, and to be deemed worthy of your art collection, it must be a mighty good one." He looked up at her and smiled back, before he stated: "You are right. Their story is even greater than Romeo and Juliet's." Intrigued, she looked down at him and silently bid him to explain.

And he acquiesced to her demand and told her the story of Dante Alighieri and Beatrice Portinari. He told her of their first meeting, when Dante had been nine and Beatrice had been eight during a gathering at her father's palazzo. He told her of how Dante had fallen in love with Beatrice even then and never fell out of love with her ever again. He told her that their relationship was the perfect example of courtly love, as it was never consummated and Dante was left to love and admire Beatrice from a far, even after they had married different people. He told her of Beatrice's untimely death and Dante's subsequent writing of the 'Divine Comedy', where he introduced the concept of the seven circles of hell. He told her that Dante had used Beatrice as his muse, not only in his earlier poetry, but also in his book, where she was one of the souls that had saved themselves and had gone to Paradise. He told her how Dante envisioned Beatrice as an angel and that he had bid her to find and rescue him from hell. He told her of how Beatrice could not pass through the gates of hell and subsequently bid Virgil, a poet of the antiques, to rescue her Dante and to shepherd him into her awaiting arms. He told her of how Beatrice led him to Paradise after they had been reunited, where they would live together forever.

She was looking down at the painting before her with amazement at the story and immediately she felt an intense longing at having heard about the love between these two individuals. There was so much pain in this world. So much lies, so much deceit, all those wars, all that hate... It truly made it unbearable to watch and at time she wished that she was able to just turn her back and never look at the world again.

But there was also love. There was love and she was most assured that one could try and search in the furthest reaches of the universe and never find anything so beautiful. Love... something that was uncontrollable, unexpected, unbearable, unpredictable and strangely easy to mistake for loathing. Her mother always talked about an opportune match, or her marrying a man who would provide for her, who would give her anything that she desired. But she'd never want for anything. She'd not want for gifts. If her beloved wanted it, she'd give him her heart and ask for nothing in exchange- no goods, no demonstrations of devotion. Nothing but knowing that he loved her too. Just his heart, in exchange for hers.

She felt her uncle rising off his chair and she watched his slightly hunched over form walking toward one of his numerous shelves and shortly after he returned with an old, tattered book, that she would have easily overlooked if she had searching for it. She took the book from his outstretched hand and looked down at the bare, paper cover of it and she perceived her uncle's explanation: "This is an original copy of Dante's 'La Divina Commedia'. I believe you still remember your Latin lessons." She looked up at him and smiled brightly at him, as his words made her recall scenes of her earlier years when she sat on the wooden chair in her uncle's study, while he made her read Julius Caesar's 'Veni, Vidi, Vici', while all she had wanted to do was go outside to her cave. She nodded her head in confirmation and ten she looked down at the book and her eyes brightened and she tightened her hold on the old copy, feeling the weight of it, as if she was holding the most precious treasure in her hands. She heard her uncle chuckle and he said: "Keep it. I haven't read it for so long now. Perhaps it shall join your old copy of The Tale of Mr. Tod in that ratty bag of yours."

She looked up at him and was just about to thank him for his gift, when she heard a heart-broken cry of 'No!' from the living room, echo through the house. She felt herself grow pale and her spine became stiff as a rod and she was reminded of a time, years ago when she had heard the same cry and from that moment on her life had never been the same again. Through a haze, she perceived that she had sat down in her uncle's chair and was clutching her new book so tightly in her hands, that her knuckles were turning white with exertion. She looked down with a wide-eyed gaze at the blank cover of the book and numbly realized that her uncle had left the study to see what had caused her mother such distress. What had caused her mother the same distress she had felt when her father had died. This time she could not fall back on the bliss of ignorance. This time she was painfully aware. She was painfully aware of the pain in her mother's voice, as she screamed, almost as if begging for mercy from an invisible torturer. She was painfully aware of what might have caused her mother such distress.

She knew. And God knows that she wished she didn't. That she wished that she was once more a four-year-old girl, who didn't understand and whose biggest worry was if her oldest brother would finish telling her about the time that Peter Rabbit had defied his mother. She rose to her feet and slowly, like a funeral pyre, she walked toward the living room, masochistically wishing to see the cause of her mother's distress. She was stopped in her track when she reached the entrance to the living room and was met with the sight of her mother on her knees, grabbing onto Bucky's shirt like it was a life-line, her only savior, while she sobbed and begged him, continuously repeating the words 'No' and 'Bucky' and 'Please' like an eternal prayer, while Bucky tried to soothe their mother. Having taken notice of her presence, he looked to the side and said in an exasperated and despaired voice: "Julia... Help me calm her down!" She looked at him wide-eyed, before she turned on her heels and proceeded to distance herself from what she had just witnessed.

It was only later that she came to him. It was only after her uncle and Bucky had calmed her mother down with the help of a pair of white pills and her mother's sobs, that had been so reminiscent of when she had received that fateful phone call eight years ago, had subsided that she went to Bucky's room and knocked on his door. It was only after she had found out that Bucky had enlisted with the Royal Air Force to fly aircraft during war time and to defend King and country, that she sat on his bed, feeling like a scared, oblivious child and she finally talked to him. It was only after she had discovered that Bucky was going to fight in the war, that she finally went to him.

"Why?", she asked him with a small, sad voice and she looked up at her older brother with confusion in her brown eyes. Bucky had been currently writing his letter of resignation from his office in the Nottingham language school, but as he perceived her voice he looked up and then said as if it was the most obvious thing in the world: "I am doing what our King has asked. I am doing my duty." She looked down at seeing the obstinacy in Bucky's eyes, a stubborn streak that both him and her had inherited from her father according to her uncle. She felt a tell-tale burning behind her eyes and immediately she screwed her eyes shut in self-deprecation and said with a shaky voice: "But what about us, Bucky?" The bed dipped down from his added weight and then she felt his arms around her and he said: "What use am I to you, now? Soon you'll be a proper young lady. I wouldn't be worried for you, you have uncle Walter. He would never let anything happen to you. And Johnny has you. I am perfectly obsolete." She shook her head and asked once more: "What about mother? What about her? She needs you." She heard him sigh warily as he answered: "She'll be fine. She has you and Johnny." She felt fiery indignation rise within her and immediately she pushed herself off his chest and looked up at him with her nostrils flaring and her brown eyes alight, as she spat: "You know that this will destroy her. If you leave, if you... die. It will kill her, I won't matter, Johnny won't matter. We hardly matter now. You are her favorite child." He looked down at her with surprise, but then he caught himself and said: "Julia, that is not true. Mother loves all her children equally." She scoffed unamused. "I am no longer a foolish child, James. It is the eldest son a mother always thinks of isn't it?", she spat as she recalled the conversation between her mother and her uncle that she and Bucky had overheard when she had been six years of age.

"This is something I need to do. You need to take care of her, Jules. Until I return, alright?" She sighed with defeat, but nodded her head in acquiescence. She knew that nothing would bring Bucky off. He was one of those people, who were disquiet, one of those who were filled to the brim with hope, but not always the good kind of hope, it was the hope that caused them to become careless people. She saw him lean down to kiss her forehead in gratitude, but she wrenched herself out of his arms, as she could not bare to look at him due to the disappointment she felt at realizing that Bucky's hope, something she had admired previously, had caused him to become a careless person. She walked to the door, feeling his incredulous gaze at her back and then she spoke over her shoulder, without really looking at him: "I'll take care of mother. But not for you, Bucky. Not everyone shares your passion for dead beliefs." With that she left his room and closed the door behind her.

She did not talk to Bucky for an entire week. Preparations were made for his departure. Parcels containing his uniform and some sort of important documents arrived. And Julia did not talk to her eldest brother for the entire time, still being angry at him subjecting their mother to this sadness and her anger only increased, as she observed her mother ghost through the halls of her uncle's great Manor with a vacant look in her blue orbs.

It was only as she stood in the main doorway of Clifton Manor and she observed Bucky's back, as he walked away from their mother after having bid her goodbye and she realized that she could not hate her brother, no matter how hard she had tried to in the past seven days. She could not hate Bucky, not when she did not know how long it would be until she saw him again. She felt an urge pack her and though she still was angry at him and wanted to make him feel a semblance of the pain she felt, she could not help herself and her impulsive nature and she ran forward and she felt her hair flow out, as it was carried by the wind and she felt the skirt of her flowery dress float about her legs. She called out to her brother and he turned at the sound of her voice calling out to him, he looked at her sadly, slightly on guard and she looked down and whispered loud enough for him to hear: "Come Back!" A mischievous smile twisted his lips and he said: "For you always, Jules."

Always. A word that was so overused, which's meaning was so disregarded when made use of that phrase. Always... two syllables so frequently and carelessly uttered. Because it implied eternity, infinity and for a mere mortal to promise forever, when we ourselves are so fleeting, it would seem ironic, cynic even.

But at times, an individual would utter it and truly mean it. A mother promising to care and protect her child. A determined youth intent on not repeating their forefathers' mistakes. An individual tenderly whispering it into their lover's ears.

Always... She would always carry the image of him getting into his auto mobile, sitting proud in his new uniform with his blonde hair tousled by the wind.


	6. Clouds bring Darkness above us

_"I've always had a weakness for lost causes once they're really lost."-Gone with the Wind, Margaret Mitchell_

* * *

_London, England, 1185 _

He sat alone at the wooden table on the far corner of the tavern and drank his ale. He sat alone and scowled down at the golden drink in his jug. The manner in which the scowl darkened his features did not contribute to banish the lonesomeness of the man, who sat dressed in his dark garb as any tavern wench, who'd have normally approached such a handsome young man offering their company for the night was intimidated and frightened by the aura of danger and anger the man exuded. Around him the other tables were filled with boisterous individuals, who swung their flagons of beer and talked with loud, booming voices. Laughter and the buzzing sound of various overlapping conversations filled the air, but none of it reached the dark-humored man, who looked so out of place with his dark scowl which made him appear years older than he truly was and whose piercing gray blue eyes had a haunted look about them. He was like a separate entity within the jovial interior of the tavern, as he kept alone and reticent. He was a mysterious, dark individual and periodically some would take notice of him and conspicuously glance at the young man, who drank his ale and seemed indifferent and cut off from any of the happenings of the night. Those who looked at him could not help but be intrigued by the man, who scowled and exuded an aura that was alarming. They could not suppress the sentiment of curiosity and intrigue that arose within them at their scrutiny of the man.

Neither could the daughter of the inn keeper, a young buxom girl who served the man their ale and whose womanly, full figure and golden hair periodically pulled the lecherous eyes of several of her father's patrons. She had been aware of the man in his dark armour with the hard jaw and the pitiless eyes since he had walked into her father's inn and she had been entranced by him and the aura of enigmatic that surrounded him. She had been in awe of him and his silent and solemn strength and had quickly brought him a pitcher of their best ale. He had not looked up at her with those stormy blue-gray eyes and his lips had been still twisted into a frown, even when she had fixed him with her brightest smile and had chirpily told him: "Here you go, sir." He had not looked up at her or shown any kind of response to her addressing him. He had kept his eyes fixed on the table and had remained silent and this had only served to increase her officiousness toward the dark man. She supposed that he could have been much more handsome had it not been for the grave and bitter expression on his face, but somehow after having scrutinized him for a few seconds, she had thought that it had suited him, the dark look. It thrilled and roused her, because the usual type of patron her father's establishment attracted were all similar in that they were discernible and lack subtlety. Their conspicuousness was obvious in the way they would openly display their lasciviousness for her. Their boisterous voices were overheard over anything, as the knights wished to gain dominance even in that regard, not being able to shed their occupation after having left the battle field. But he was not like that, she would think intrigued. He was withdrawn and solemn and infinitely handsome with his strong aquiline features and his dark hair, which hung around his eyes. Yet she would feel intense disappointment concerning this man she craved after. For when she had finally gathered her courage and gone up to him and offered herself to him, he had looked up at her and his indifference had no longer made her yearn for him, but only made her feel shameful self-consciousness as he dismissed her, calling her 'little girl' assuring her that he preferred his solitude.

Yes, Guy of Gisborne preferred to remain alone. He had always treasured his solitude. Differently from the other boys he had grown up with south of Nottingham, he had never been as boisterous and outgoing. From a very young age, solemnity and an innate sense of responsibility had been ingrained in his character. Guy of Gisborne always had a purpose to all deed he undertook. After that fateful day he'd stood before his burning Gisborne Estate looking with an incredulous sense of numbness at the misery and destruction he'd single-handed caused, Guy had made a promise to himself to always think through his actions so that he would never more have to feel the helplessness and despondency that came with being caught off guard, similarly to when the Lord of Locksley had come barging into his home and he had tried to stop this man who seemed intent to take from him everything that mattered, who had wanted to cast out Guy's own father and he had tried, with despair, to stop the man. And he had caused his parent's death and his descent into utter misery. He had become obstinate to never make such grievous mistake ever again and that is when Guy's actions had all become premeditated and carefully thought out. That is when Guy of Gisborne had recognized that only the most purposeful people were truly powerful and got anything they desired. His anguish of being caught off guard had banished through his establishment of a cold, calculating front and it had been replaced by the anguish of poverty and his arduous efforts to overcome it. He was a proud man- he always had been, it was something that his mother, his dear, beautiful, terrible, treacherous mother had always told him and admonished him for. She had always warned him of his pride and the sin it was to be so assuming. The injury his poverty offered to his pride, to his view and expectations he had of himself as master over a vast bountiful land. He bristled every time his pride was injured whenever he saw how low he had come, that instead of sleeping on a warm, downy bed the same his father had owned as lord over the Gisborne lands and estate he was forced to sleep on hay and shiver on cold nights seeking the warmth within his clothes. He was always left with a bitter taste in his mouth when he'd see nobles pass by him on the streets and sneer at him and his appearance, assuming him to be a peasant and not the noble he was born as. But despite the battering of his pride, he had not given up. He had not given up and his calculated and manipulative actions were much easier to plot when he was left in solitude. He had decided to come to France after having been banished from his rightful lands. he had come to France in hopes of appealing to his mother's family and he had been left with a caustic sense of hatred and resentment when they'd turned them away. After all they could not offer them anything in exchange for taking them in, for taking in the poor, dirty, hungering infants and people only supported you when you could offer them something. That was a lesson that Guy'd had to learn in the most cruel way, but it had made him determine, made him determined to achieve his purpose without the help or support of anyone or anything. He had taken work where he could find it, where people would be merciful enough to allow him to work for a meager living. He'd preferred to work at a blacksmiths for he had been able to practice his sword fighting skills, while the elderly man had fallen asleep before the roaring hearth after lunchtime. He'd perfected his skill, so that one day he'd be eligible as a squire for a knight, to become an apprentice to one of those warriors himself and possibly achieve that status of respect.

A year ago he'd sold off his sister for a handful of golden coins, when an older man had propositioned him in a tavern just like this one. His sister had gone off to bed and the man had come up to him and asked him for the possession of his sister. Guy'd had stifled the instinctive urge to strike the man and not to sneer in repulsion, as he looked at the large man with fouling teeth. He'd been able to stifle that urge and been prepared to deny the man until he had offered a large sum for his sister. Consequently, three days later he'd dragged a distressed Isabella to a chapel and married her off to Wheaton. He'd appealed to his sister's sense of loyalty and her obedience toward him and finally she had gone off with the man. The months following a few letters from his sister had reached him, but had become more sporadic as time had passed and eventually half a year after he'd married her off correspondence between the two siblings had completely ceased. He supposed that he should have felt grieved at his estrangement from his sister, the same little girl whom he had promised to protect, the same little girl whom he had played with when they had been younger, whom he had carried on his back when he had come back from patrolling the fields of his estate and whose bell-like laughter he'd delighted himself in. But Guy had been unable to care. Wheaton's money had not lasted long or brought any improvement to his fate, but he'd been unable to shame himself for selling off his sister to a stranger. He'd thought about his actions and he'd never regret them, he refused to. And that is how he found himself sitting alone at a tavern table, similar to the one he had sat at a year ago. The only difference was that instead of the image of a young girl who had the same dark hair and piercing eyes as him eating a loaf of bread ravenously, he was met with a large void. He was alone and Guy of Gisborne preferred it that way.

But he wouldn't remain for very much longer in this state of solitude. A shadow was thrown across him and his table, as a figure stood in front of the lone candle which illuminated the outlying corner, Guy was sat at. He furrowed his brows and looked up at the man, which had just joined him. He felt a shiver of discomfort race down his spine as he looked upon the man, who had a nefarious sparkle in his dark, dead eyes which one could recognize from afar. Guy felt discomfort as he saw the man study him intently with a fiendish smirk on his features, but he refused to show it and he tipped his chin up and met the man's glance with an indifferent one of his own. In response to his display of defiance, the man chuckled and in a scratchy voice that Guy could not help but find intensely grating he said: "I must say, Sir Matthew's description of you was quite apt. He did say you would be a haughty, solemn boy."

He rose at the man's words and with much more amenity he said: "Forgive me, sir. I did not who you were. Please sit." He took place as soon as the man had sat down before him and flagged down the tavern servants to bring a beverage for the man, his cordiality born out of his recognition who the man was and the opportunity this man offered him. Sir Matthew, a knight who had been a crusader and fought in the Holy Land beside his father had a few weeks ago, after having coincidentally met Guy in the streets of Portsmouth, offered to recommend him as a squire to one of his acquaintances, partially as a favor to his friend the late Sir Roger partially as a payment for the handsome sword Guy had manufactured for him. He knew that the man before could offer him a position as a quire and if he chose to take him on, could offer him an escape from the miserable he loathed to call his own. For a long moment silence blanketed them until a tavern wench arrived with the elder man's ale. Guy had taken the moment of quietude to study the man's garb and greed seized him as he saw the wealth of the man, reflected by the heavy fur lining of his coat and the handsome sword he carried on his belt. "Tell me... what unfortunate circumstance has caused a noble born boy like you to live in such misery?" the man addressed him, but there was no sympathy in his words. Rather Guy felt that the man seemed to mock him, as he smirked devilishly at him. Inwardly, he bristled but kept quiet not wanting to relay the tale of his misfortune. In response to his silence, the man leaned forward almost preditorially and stated: "Come... if we are to become friends, you must trust me, boy." Guy bit his tongue to suppress the urge to tell the man that friendship was the last thing he wanted from him and to tell to stop calling him a boy, when he had long entered manhood.

Guy once more kept quiet and simply stared into the man's eyes coldly, but still politely not wanting to chase away this unique opportunity but unwilling to be completely submissive to the man. A short while of silence passed between them, while they studied one another and then the man started to chuckle indulgently, almost in sadistic affection: "It seems you are a wary one, Guy." He straightened his spine in response to the man's words and the man waved his hands dismissively: "No, that is not an offense. Believe me, I commend you on that. It is wise of you to be distrustful. There are no good people in this world, son. Any kindness shown towards you arises from circumstance. But I think you know that for yourself." Guy nodded curtly and told him with a strong, yet silent voice: "I am much aware, my lord. No one has ever achieved anything through kindness. There is always a purpose to what we do, an interest."

The man cocked his head in response to Guy's words and with a sadistic smile he said: "And I assume you do not employ kindness in your tactics, boy." "No, I have a purpose. I shall do whatever is required to achieve it." he spat and took a hearty gulp from his ale. The man's smirk before him had widened and Guy felt almost like prey, as the man eyed him and smiled at him wolfishly. "And would you be loyal to whoever helped you achieve that purpose. Would you do what he commanded without question, without second thought?" The man's voice had become quieter, as he whispered conspiratorially to Guy. "Betrayal is the worse crime a man can commit. As long as I do not suffer treachery, I shall not betray him." Guy spat and with distaste he recalled his mother's betrayal of their father, what had ultimately caused his plightful existence. The man before him chuckled lowly and lent back into his chair. The man raised the brim of his goblet to his lips and slightly toasted to him, before stating: "Yes, you shall do nicely."

Guy had expected to feel utter triumph when he recognized the man's decision to take him on as a squire. Yet he could not help but to sit frozen, petrified in his chair, feeling that he had irrevocably signed his soul away to the devil, as he became Peter Vasey's squire.

* * *

_Clifton Manor, England, 1944_

"Miss Julia, your mother is on the phone for you." At the sound of her name, she looked over her shoulders and smiled at the slightly slumped form of the elderly Mrs. McClaren sporting her usual conservative, gray dress and her graying hair in a tight, neat bun on her head. Julia marked the page she had been reading and tenderly closed the book, as if it were something endlessly precious but incredibly fragile, before she snatched her feet from the fresh water of the garden's pond and running towards the house barefoot with her sandals clutched in her hands. She bit her lips in amusement at the look of disapproval from the stern seamstress, as she looked upon Julia's hardy state, disapproving that the girl was still so wild despite her age.

Julia Curtis had grown up in an adult environment. In a habitat which valued manners and decorum more than honesty, freedom and emotions. She had grown up in a household which set propriety and respectability as the greatest characters to be possessed and which taught her that tact and convention were to be glorified. She grew up in a world were from the first moments after birth one was already destined to become an adult, a responsible courtly adult with a seemly mind and corresponding manners. Yet to her mother's greatest disappointment, Julia had retained her childish innocence and her fiery spirit that no teaching, no scolding had ever extinguished from within her. Of course, she was not savage and she knew when to behave herself but beneath her at times genteel manners one could always see her fierceness brimming from beneath her and at times she would not even attempt to conceal it. Julia had grown up and had this spring turned into a young woman of eighteen years of age. It had grieved her to do so, because she knew that her mother and her aunt's attempts to groom her into a desirable wife would only increase until she was left with little choice but to acquiesce and the thought of becoming unobtrusive, and dim had troubled her so fiercely that she had been unable to sleep in the night of her birthday. Her aunt Cecilia had told her of one of her old childhood friends, Annie Wiltman the daughter of their neighbours from when they had lived in London. She supposed that her aunt had meant to impress her with her description of the newly engaged woman, but all Julia had been able to picture was a downcast and tempered woman with dead eyes and shackles at her feet, especially when she had received an answer from Annie a few weeks later, when she had wrote to her in response to her aunt's news and the letter's contents seemed artificially content. Annie described her husband-to-be, his fortune, his wealth, his high standing and described herself as the most fortunate girl in London. But Julia had been left to feel a crushing sense of discontent for her old playmate, when she'd realized that not once had the girl mentioned her feelings.

She knew that her aunt and her mother periodically complained about her. That they thought her behavior a waste. That they considered her beautiful with her long mahogany tresses and her deep brown eyes and her angelic features- a warm, kind type of beauty. One that was perhaps not extraordinary and startling. But Julia Curtis was without a doubt lovely, for there was an innocence and a kindness to her beauty, something that made her exude warmth and comfort. And this kind beauty of hers was completely aligned with her compassionate and gentle way, which even the people who most disapproved of her could not refute. Despite her fierce nature and her untameable spirit, Julia treated most everyone with a loving, considerate benevolence. There were times when she admonished others if they did something she disapproved of, for she had a tigerish temper and disapproved greatly of degeneracy. She was intelligent and highly educated, especially after having formed such a close bond with her uncle. It was a shame, aunt Cecilia and her mother would say, it was a shame that she was so wild and ill-mannered, she would've been a most eligible bride otherwise.

"Must you walk barefoot, Julia? You are too old for that." She bit her lip in affectionate amusement as the stern governess admonished her. She knew that the woman was stern and that similarly to her mother and aunt, she disapproved of Julia's lack of decorum. Yet the woman was fond of her, she supposed that she was bound to become especially after Julia and her family having lived her for more than twelve years. Mrs. McClaren saw the patriarchal feelings that Mr. Curtis had for Julia and it caused her to soften toward the girl, seeing that she had able to get through to the solemn, withdrawn master of Clifton Manor. Julia smiled at the stern governess who was trying to keep up her disapproving mask in face of the girl's bright smile. "Allow me this indulgence, Mrs. McClaren." the girl said in a dulcet voice and put her hand on the woman's thin shoulders and immediately the stern woman softened and eventually she petted the girl's head in silent acquiescence. Julia smiled once more at her and she proceeded to make her way to the living room where the phone was located.

She felt excitement that her mother had called. Three months after Bucky had left to fight in the king's army against the Germans and the French, her mother had decided to move back to their old house in the suburbs of bustling London, so that when Bucky came to England during his leave, they would be able to enjoy their time together more fully without Bucky having to drive from London to the Midlands. Her aunt lived with her mother to provide her some companionship as her mother had decided that it would be best if Julia and John remained in Clifton Manor with her uncle. Julia had felt relief at her mother's decision, for she'd been loath to part from her uncle Walter, especially now that his health was declining. Julia supposed that the lavish London society had been doing her mother good. The last time she had been to visit them in Nottinghamshire, a couple of months ago, the woman had arrived in a jovial mood and had embraced her only daughter before gifting her with an elegant black dress that she had bought in one of London's 'Most esteemed tailors'. Julia had been gobsmacked when the woman had given her the ornate gift box and had gathered her into her arm and for a few seconds she had been like the most unyielding stone in her mother's arms, amazed at the previously aloof woman's attention to her. She felt excitement that her mother called, because perhaps her mother had recovered and would no longer be so aloof towards her two other children. She felt excitement, because she supposed that the only reason for her mother to call was to inform her of Bucky's next leave and invite her to London like half a year ago, when Bucky had been last on leave.

Her grip on the book she carried tightened and she smiled fondly. He had given it to her, as an early Christmas present, as he'd called it. The book she had already read through twice, the tale of the Little Prince. She had been able to read the book before Bucky had departed and after having spent the night awake reading through the tender story of the young boy from another planet and of the pilot and of the rose, who was the little Prince's greatest love. She had read the book and in the dawning morning she had entered Bucky's room and laid down beside him and thanked him tenderly for the book. She had hugged him and he had dropped an affectionate kiss on her forehead and muttered sleepily: "There's my Jules. I missed her." She had tightened her embrace around him, feeling guilt course through her when she realized that she had distanced herself from him ever since he had gone to fight in this war she disapproved of greatly. After that both of them had truly indulged in Bucky's leave. He had introduced her to Italian music and the culture, which she had immediately fallen in love with and he had promised her that as soon as the war was over, for Bucky was most self-confident that it would end and that England would emerge victorious, that he would take her to Italy. To Rome to see the Colosseum and wander through the twisting streets. that he would take her to Florence so that she could walk through the 'Ponte Vecchio' and imagine that she was retracing the steps of her favorite Dante Alighieri, so that she could stand at the same spot Beatrice had stood in.

She picked up the receiver of the phone and greeted her mother was a smile of her face. It dropped as soon as she heard her mother's sobbing voice on the phone. She only perceived through a haze, as her mother informed her that her brother had died in battle.

* * *

_Leicester, England, 1190_

As his climax hit him Guy pounded into her roughly, as she writhed and moaned beneath him. He allowed his orgasm to subside before he pulled out of her and lay down at his side, breathing heavily. He felt her curl into his side and immediately he had the urge to push her away, as her sweat-coated skin came into contact with his. But he simply looked up at the ceiling above him consumed by his usual thoughts after a while of mindless, carnal pleasure. Yet he could not help but to sneer in distaste, as the woman snuggled up to him and purred playfully into his ears. Yet he allowed her to do so, as he got lost in his thoughts.

He had ridden from Nottingham to Leicestershire on Sheriff Vasey's bidding. Complying to his orders, something he had been doing for what seemed an eternity to him, something that he did instinctively, without a second thought. He had meant his words five years ago, that he would be loyal to whomever helped him achieve his ambitions and Vasey had earned his grudging loyalty by giving Guy all he had ever wanted. He had given Guy power, affluence- the Sheriff's henchman was surely the most feared man of the county, a pitiless, merciless is what all villagers thought him to be without a doubt because he had not patience or leniency with lawbreakers or peasants. He would enforce the Sheriff's laws and his taxes, no matter how corrupt or depraved they may have been and he knew everyone lived in constant fear of him. Vasey had given him stewardship over Robin of Locksley's land, while the Earl of Huntington had been fighting in the Holy Land and he had achieved permanent ownership over the Locksley Estate after the man had returned and the next day he had been outlawed. Guy would still feel perverse amusement that he now owned everything that had previously been from the boy who had tormented him so greatly during their childhood. Vasey had give him everything that he'd wanted- power, lands, an abundance of money and vengeance on his childhood enemy.

And all Vasey had ever demanded of him was his loyalty. Of course Guy'd had to carry out heinous crimes and he knew that he had become a depraved, soulless man in his pursuit of power. He knew that he was bound to go to hell, that even if he had never committed those terrible crimes he was already condemned for simply cultivating those plots of treason that Vasey had ingrained within him. He thought King Richard to be a useless king, who fought for the church and not for his people. The persisting loyalty toward their monarch that people in Nottinghamshire held puzzled him. When Vasey had told him of the Black Knights and their plot to assassinate King Richard, he had at first been reluctant, fear of the consequences it held for him if their plot failed making him reticent. Yet when Vasey had presented him all the wealth and the power they could achieve through it, Guy had been persuaded and finally it had been decided that he would train and lead the Black Knights against Richard Coeur-de-Lion.

That was the reason he had come to Leicester. He had come to ensure the Sheriff's allegiance and his co-operation towards their plot. He had dined with the Sheriff and his closest adviser and he had felt smug satisfaction when their dealings during dinner had hinted that they had gained the Sheriff of Leicester as a co-conspirator. Just as he had been about to leave for dinner, a blonde kitchen maid who had a voluptuous figure that had left Guy feel lecherous lust, had propositioned him and offered her company for the night and he had accepted.

He had fucked her roughly and carelessly, only intent on his own pleasure but she had seemingly enjoyed it as she had moaned loudly and wantonly. He had not felt obliged to be gentle with her or considerate. He cared little for other people's well-being otherwise and he felt no obligation towards her.

He sighed in exasperation, as the maid curled further into him and determinedly he shook her off and proceeded to dress himself. He heard her ask him where he was going, while he was lacing his breeches and he gave no answer to her. Just as he was about to pick up his tunic and put it over his head, he heard her state with a lustful voice: "No, stay. You don't need to be done with me yet." He looked down at her promiscuous expression and rolled his eyes, before he shook off her hand that lay on his arm roughly and stood up making his way to the door. Over his shoulder he snarled: "Mind your place, wench." He took out a small coin from his pocket and left it on the table to pay her for her service. He then exited and closed the door roughly behind him.

* * *

_London, England, 1944_

The veil felt heavy on her face and the elegant dress she had gotten from her mother strangled her like ropes. Her mother's shaking, clammy hands felt cold and heavy and wrong, while being encased in hers and through the black lace of her veil she kept her gaze studiously trained in front of her. She was sat between her sobbing mother and desolate younger brother on the front most benches of the cathedral where on this sunny Sunday morning James Curtis' funeral was being held. She did not look at the intricate and ornate interior of the church, the large windows and the Gothic architecture she admired in other churches. She kept her gaze fixed to the front, she did not look to her sides and back to see how some of their acquaintances and Bucky's friends had come to lament his passing. She kept her gaze fixed on the wooden casket that contained her elder brother, while holding her mother's hands and feeling the mourning woman lean into her.

She closed her eyes and shook her head. She cursed the war in her head. She cursed these times she had been living in. She cursed this constant battle that had been going on for five years now. She cursed all the cruelty and brutality in this world. She cursed the fact that she could count herself as another of the one's whose lives had changed so drastically from one day to the other and whose life would never be the same once more due to one fateful moment. When someone had decided to point their gun riffle in specific direction and had pulled the trigger in an exact moment, condemning her to this fate. She cursed violence and depravity, and she cursed greed. But most of all she cursed Bucky's passion for old patriotic ideals.

The image of him getting into his car five years ago, with a proud, confident smile on his face ghosted through her thoughts. His blonde hair tousled by the wind and him cockily stating that he'd always come back for her. She knew that image would haunt her for the rest of her life. He'd died so young. He had only been five years older than her. He'd still had his entire life ahead of him, Julia had imagined that he would have returned from war, finally having fulfilled his dream to be a proud hero. She'd imagined that perhaps he would have fallen in love with a nurse who had tended to him when he'd been hurt and that he would have returned to England with her and married. And that soon Julia would've had a little niece or nephew that she could have spoiled rotten. She recalled her childhood with Bucky. While she had always been closer to her young brother, John with Bucky being more concerned with their mother and at times disregarding his siblings in favor of the grieving woman, Julia had loved her elder brother and knew that he had loved her in return. Even when at times she had felt that they had been the exact opposite of each other. When she'd felt that their views on what was right and wrong were so differing and she'd be so disapproving of his patriotic spirit prompting him to kill in the war. He'd had more decorum than Julia and had resembled their mother in his cordial behavior. Yet one thing they had shared was the same wish for adventure, though what type had differed. Even when he had teased her for her incessant reading and her wild imagination, Julia had still loved her elder brother.

Like Julia had predicted her mother had broken down and Julia had felt helpless, because it had always been Bucky who'd dealt with their mother's mourning breakdowns. The woman had clung to her, when Julia had arrived from the Midlands the day after that fateful phone call. Her mother had clung to her and originally Julia would have been content at her mother's attention towards her, but this time it had felt wrong and counterfeit. Julia had tended to her mother, laying her sobbing mother to sleep and cooking her comforting herbal teas, but all the while she had felt helpless on what to do. John had been inconsolable for he had always regarded his elder brother as his idol and had often told her that when he grew up, he'd be just as brave as Bucky and that he'd be a soldier. This had earned him his sister's fervent disapproval and admonishment and had prompted their first argument, which had been solved two days later when John had come to her and laid down beside her as he had been unable to sleep during the storm at night. Her little brother sat inconsolably beside her and looked at the casket of his hero with tears in his eyes.

And while she felt grieved at her brother's passing, she refused to cry. Because she could not. Her innate sense of responsibility prevented her from doing so. Even when she felt a painful pang in her heart, she knew she could not cry. When she wanted to do little else than break down and mourn the passing of the man who had read her 'Peter Rabbit' when her father had been away, to mourn the man who had given her the story of a little blonde-haired boy who fell in love with a rose and to return to her allowed a snake to poison him. She refused to cry as she heard the Vicar's eulogy, as she heard the words which were meant to function as balm to her soul, but which did not comfort her in the least. She could not cry because she needed to be strong for her little brother and her mother, who were desolate and who needed someone strong to care for them. She could not break down, even when she felt that her grief threatened to asphyxiate her. She could not cry even when she had to let go off her mother's hands and to grab the perch before her in a tight, shaky grip and her form slumped over and she let out a shaky exhalation, as she heard the choir singing: "_Nearer my god to thee, nearer to thee." _

_"Angels to beckon me, nearer my god to thee." the _congregation sang returned to her upright posture and squared her shoulders, tipping her head back and gritting her teeth in pain, looking towards the heavens above, not at the casket. Immediately she felt her mother's desperate hands search hers out once more. She grabbed her mother's algid palms and kept them in hers and endured the excruciation of keeping strong until the melody had ceased.

Her shoulders slumped in relief when the melody ended and only through a haze of exhaustion that had suddenly packed her, she perceived that some of Bucky's fellow soldiers had gathered and folded the English flag that had been laid on his casket and were moving towards them. The soldier stood with his spine straight before her mother and with hands outstretched attempted to hand her the flag. Yet her mother made not attempt to respond to the shoulders, as she gripped Julia's hands with both of her hands tightly and continued to cry. Julia closed her eyes and lifted her veil before she outstretched her hands and took the folded flag from the soldier, nodding her head in gratitude at the gesture. The man saluted to her and moved off and Julia was left to clutch the flag, as if t were a part of Bucky that she did not want to let go. She clutched the flag throughout the rest of the service, she clutched the flag as she lead the congregation with her mother at her side, she clutched the flag as Bucky was lowered into the ground and she was reminded of that time so many years ago, when she had seen another wooden casket being lowered and she'd held the bundle that had been her little brother and saw her father leaving them forever.

She hugged the flag to her chest after the funeral had ended and they had accepted the condolences of all that had attended. Julia stood beneath the shade of the apple tree that was in full bloom and looked at the mount of earth beneath which her brother lay. Her mother had long gone, carried off by Aunt Cecilia and John had left with them. She stood by herself with the English flag clutched to her chest looking at the grave of her brother. She had torn the veil of her head, the fabric weighing her down even more and she had deposited it in her purse. Now that she was alone she allowed herself to finally feel and she pursed her red lips and closed her eyes and the next time they opened a tear was released and flowed down her cheek.

"Oh, Bucky." she whispered and shook her head at the fate of her brother, which was only due to his obstinacy due to his beliefs.

She did not hear how someone silently approached her and she did not see him as she kept her eyes fixed on her brother's grave. She only felt the numbing sense of loss, as she finally allowed herself to cry over the loss of her brother. She felt the warmth of someone by her side, but she did not acknowledge the new arrival in any way other than lowering her head in shame at having been caught crying. Her self-deprecating was so great that she let out a sob and buried her face into her free hand. She heard someone mutter something, almost unintelligible, in a deep voice, something that sounded like he was saying 'Oh, my darling.' She felt the stranger reach out a hand instinctively, as if wanting to grab her to embrace her to comfort her, but then stopping as if unsure of the wisdom of that action. She heard him sigh beside her and he settled for laying a strong, warm hand on her shoulder. She held her breath, as she felt warmth seep through her at the touch of his hand and she stilled and awaited him to say something, anything.

"I... My... My condolences." the man said in his deep voice unconfidently and Julia exhaled before squaring her shoulders. She nodded her head but did not look up at the stranger, who had comforted her. She spun on her heel and turned around in the direction of the cemetery's gate, feeling his warm gaze on her back for the entirety of the way.

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**Here is the next chapter of my Story. Next chapter we will really start to get into the Story. I promise no more introductory chapters. Anyways, I hope you guys enjoyed reading this chapter and I hope you continue to read the Story. **

**QOTW: What do you think about Julia? Annoying? Weird? Mary-Sue? Too unrealistic? **

**Please Review and tell me your opinion so I can maybe Change her character if necessary.**


	7. Feeling Future in the Air

_"Why, sometimes I've believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast."- Alice In Wonderland, Lewis Carroll _

_London, England, 1944_

Julia clutched the leather band of her satchel tightly in her hands, as she crossed the busy streets of central London. She felt the comforting weight of the bulk of her bag against her thigh and allowed herself to be comforted by her carrying of her favourite books with her, as she crossed the busy passages which she was still dismally unfamiliar with. She walked as quickly as her short legs and frame would allow her to, as she by-passed a stream of individuals, which moved in an alternate direction.

She had gotten unused to the enthalpy of her birth place. Even though she had lived here for a considerable amount of time after her birth, to her it still had felt as if her entire life had been spent in the areas surrounding Clifton Manor and the little village, which abutted it. She had gotten unused to the busy clamour of the capital, as it seemed to her as if her entire life she had lived surrounded by the green woods and the serenity and peace of the countryside. She had gotten unused to the steady flow of vehicles at her side and at the constant heavy blanket of noise, its presence constant. When she had first arrived in London, for the very first time she had ventured from the suburbs she lived in to the dense centre, the symphony of auto mobiles driving over the worn pavement of the roads and the stead buzzing of several conversations and frantic, tumultuous voices around her had grated on her ears.

It was not as if she had never returned to London after having left it at the age of five and moved to the Midlands, for she had been here whenever her aunt Cecilia had decided to invite her family and her to spend a holiday in the empty house of the woman. When she had first entered adolescence there had also been increasing conversation of her moving to the metropolis under her aunt's care, so that she could be groomed or taught the manners expected of a young lady in society. Yet the discussions had not lasted for very much longer for her uncle had been strictly, adamantly against such a notion and Julia had been relieved that she had not been forced to leave her family in Clifton Manor.

It was not as if she did not know what London was like, yet when she had returned to her home after Bucky's death, she had still felt a startling unfamiliarity with her surroundings and had felt innately uncomfortable completely exposed to London and its society.

Yet despite the lack of familiarity she distinctly felt, as she crossed the most busy locations of London, she did not keep her gaze fixed on the dusty pavement below her or try to blend into and get lost in the mass. She kept her head up high and looked with curious, young brown eyes at her surroundings. She would perceive the colourful strip at either of her sides, which consisted of several shops offering the most diverse range of produce and products. She passed by several windows, ornately decorated with garlands of silk in the most dissimilar and divergent designs, as if it was a necessity that the same shade of midnight blue was not present on another fabric and that the bright red blossoms on once clothes was more vibrant than on the other. She moved past shops containing the most ornate objects displayed like proud trophies in their windows: colourful and delicate vases, dignified mannequins which stood in a proud posture with their spines straight. She walked through central London moving against a stream of individuals, which by-passed her moving in the same or in an opposite direction, who would occasionally stop and study the shop displays with curious, polite interest. Their visages expressed a multitudinous range of emotion. Yet one which Julia could identify in all their gazes was worry.

It was not a startling discovery to her. That they all worried. Their lives were all so prone to change and uncontrollable and untameable. Their lives were so ephemeral, transient, it would have been inadequate if they did not worry. It would surely have been unnatural and inhuman. Not even the most superior of members of the high London society were able to mask, to bury the worry they felt. Not even Mrs. Wiltman, a woman whose aloof and cold demeanour had often intimidated Julia during her youth had been unable to mas her worry during her dinner reception last Thursday, the same day when the Wiltman family had been informed that the French village Mrs. Wiltman's brother-in-law resided in had just gotten under German occupation. It would have been outlandish and admittedly cruel to not have felt worry in these times they were in. In these times where death and perversion and misery hovered over each and every one of them like a heavy cloak of shadow. It would have been preposterous to not feel worry when fear seemed to be their constant companion. When children no longer gaily ran in the reticent streets of her suburbs, but moved through space with a heavy, solemn brow. When they were all painfully, excruciatingly aware of the gravity of this period's situation. When the memory of the pain experienced more than two decades ago taunted and mocked them with cruel enjoyment. It was only sensible to feel worry. It was acceptable that a woman moved past her with her young boy's hand clutched in a tight, almost painful grip. scared that if she softened it for even a fraction of a second she would lose him. Her fear, their fear was justified, as periodically they came by the ruins of buildings and they would bereavedly reflect that this was the home of someone and they would avert their eyes in dread of receiving a similar fate if they looked to long at misfortune.

It was only human that they should feel bereavement.

A couple of months had passed since Bucky's funeral and while the grief over the loss of her brother still weighed their household and her down immensely, like an added crucial weight to her shoulders, she refused to allow the death of her brother to overwhelm her and render her incompetent. She was aware of the responsibility that now rested on her. She was painfully, blindly aware that she needed to care for her mother. Oh, her poor heartbroken sombre mother who she would see ghosting through the halls of their house like a disconsolate dismal spirit. How had been rendered devoid of any life since the loss of the only person that had comforted her since their father's death. Her poor feeble mother, who had not vacated her room for weeks after they had received the news of Bucky's demise and who had laid catatonically in her chambers not emitting a single noise and who had frightened Julia immensely and made her almost sick with worry in her vegetative state. The woman whom after a week in that piteous state Julia had demanded leaver room and had heatedly told her that she would not accept her mother to be even more absent from Johnny's life as she had previously been. The woman she had confronted heatedly and demanded that she be there for her youngest child and to not repeat the mistakes she had committed with her. The woman whom she had enclosed in her arms, with guilt and shame over her outburst and her admonishment of the woman in her sickly state, when the woman had burst into tears and whom she had cruelly harshly extracted from her comatose front.

She needed to care for her mother and for Johnny. Oh, her poor little brother, whose childhood dreams of heroes and saints had been cruelly crashed when she had entered his room after recovering from her numb shock and whom she had gravelly enclosed in her arms and had whispered to him that their brother had died. The fourteen-year-old boy, who'd cried like an infant at the loss of his elder brother who he revered, at the loss of his idol and who Julia had rocked in her arms, reminiscent of the way she had comforted him when he had first scraped his knees or when a vicious wasp had first stung him and she'd carefully yet efficiently tended to the red, angry sting.

She had to mourn her brother quietly, inwardly. She could not break down. Not when she was the one who they had to rely on. Not when she was weighed down by responsibility and she knew that she would forever accuse herself if she did not efficiently care for them, for her family during their difficulty. She knew that she would never forgive herself if she abandoned Johnny or her mother. If she became a careless person in her grief and disregarded those she loved. She had to be strong and withstand her urge to grief her brother, because they relied. She had to resist the urge to mourn the death of her young, courageous, foolhardy brother, who had held her like she had done with Johnny when their father had passed. Who had given her the little Prince book, with tamed red rose and the wise fox and with the drawing of the sheep in the box. Not even when she read through select passages in the book, which Bucky had first pointed out to her during his last leave and had told her that it had been those passages that had motivated to purchase the book for her, not even then when she felt near breathless with grief did she allow herself to cry. She felt a deep-seated, fierce sense of responsibility to care for her mother, because that is what Bucky would have done, what he had done, what he would have wanted her to do. And it had caused her to completely invert Johnny's, her uncle's, her life and move to London to care for her mother, who had steadfastly refused to return to Clifton Manor, unwilling to leave the house she had for some reason associated with Julia's elder brother. Julia had moved to London, permanently, leaving behind her childhood home, her home, at her aunt's insistence and the woman's fixed belief that Julia could only profit from taking up residence in the capital. She had moved away from home because her mother needed her and she was loathe to let down the saddened woman.

Yet inwardly, and she felt such resentment at herself for this feeling, she had felt intense dissatisfaction and aversion at returning to London. She had not wanted to leave Clifton Manor and Nottinghamshire. Especially not know, when her birthplace held comfort for her no warmth, and only seemed intensely menacing. When to her it seemed that it was the seat of all misery, all injury of war and she forced to feel fear every second they remained here. She had felt such antipathy to this location and to herself, when she had sternly prohibited Johnny from leaving their home one afternoon when he had asked to play with the neighbour's boy and she had raised her voice at him and prohibited him and he had looked up at her with startled sea-green eyes. She had not allowed him to leave and play outside because she had felt fear and worry and she knew that these caustic feelings would have rendered her incapable for the duration of his absence. And she had loathed this place when she had felt Johnny's resentment at her smothering and her protectiveness.

And guilt. That was another thing she felt acutely. Guilt at having left Clifton Manor and her uncle. Her uncle, the man who despite his aloofness and his gruff had cared for her and had become fond of her. Who had shaped her childhood in a way that had defined the person she had become while growing up. The man who had always supported her passionate spirit and had instilled within her a deep and abiding love for books and fantasies. The man who had previously seemed so stern and unapproachable and distinguished to her, but who had always encouraged her over-active mind and her fanciful dreams. The man who had guided, who had comforted her and who had a father figure to her for the entirety of her young age. The man who had been there for her when she hurt most and who now needed her, but whom she had forsaken. The man who was now sick and who required of her, but she had left him, albeit under the careful tutelage of Mrs. McClaren. Yet Julia could not help but think that she should be there. That she should be the one who was looking after him, who comforted him.

Unwillingly she recalled an incident a few months before she had gotten the news of Bucky's demise.

The incident had marked for it had been the first time Julia had truly realized the extent of her uncle's sickness. He had not gotten sick over night, of course. Like silent burglar, it had stalked hunted him and slowly taken a hold of him. It had not come instantaneously, suddenly. It had been gradual- so gradual that she had not even recognized it. She had not realized who her uncle would increasingly stumble over his words during their conversations or how at times he would forget his thoughts, which he never did previously. But she did not realize it, perhaps she had not wanted because even thinking of the consequences for the man who was her dearest friend in the world would have pained her too greatly. So she had allowed herself to be enveloped by the blissfulness of ignorance and there she had remained until one fateful day. Her uncle had been bedridden for a week now, as he had caught a cold and due to his advanced age the family physician had deemed it wise for him to rest in bed and not to exert himself. She had been trying to feed him some of Mrs. McClaren's chicken stew, yet he had been adamant not to enjoy the warm dish he had been previously been so fond of. She had tried and coaxed and to appease her he had ingested a few spoonfuls of the warm broth. But then he had turned his head like a stubborn child and had shook his head forcefully and demanded that she stop forcing him to eat. She had sighed and stood and had walked over to Mrs. McClaren and handed her the half-filled bowl and sadly said that she would try to get him to eat more later. Just as she had been about to close the door of her uncle's room behind her and the governess she had heard his voice call out to her. She had looked back as he demanded: "Send Julia up to me. She has not been to see me for very long. She shall get quite disappointed if I do not read her 'Alice in Wonderland' after lunch today." She had looked at her uncle incredulously while he had been looking at the emptiness before him with a void expression. The realization of her uncle's condition had hit her forcefully and left her breathless and she had vacated his room without looking back.

She had gone to Dr. Smith, the family physician and she had desperately searched for a cure, perhaps a treatment that could be administered to her uncle. Yet she was left to feel cold defeat when Dr. Smith had told her that there was nothing they could do. That she was doomed to watch the man who had cared for her as his own disintegrate before her eyes, that he would have to suffer through this. And she was grieved because she was destined to loose this man, the man who had told her of Robin Hood, whom she had looked at artistic masterpieces enchantingly with, who had always given her books during each holiday and birthday, who would jokingly call her 'Cathy' after the heroine of Emily Bronte's novel with whom she shared the same wild spirit in his opinion, the man who would read her Lewis Carroll's novel after lunch on Wednesdays.

She was shaken from her bereaved thoughts when her gaze was raised and she looked up at the green door of a small corner shop. She furrowed her brow at the inconspicuous entrance of the building, which contrasted so greatly with the lavish door and entries of the other shops in this region of London. She looked at the brick-lined façade of the low building and felt compelled to enter the shop. So great was this attractive force that before she could ponder any further on this peculiar sensation, her hand was already resting on the brass knob and she was slowly turning, so that the door opened with a shrill, squeaky shriek and she stepped into the dark interior of the store.

She looked around her and a slow smile gradually twisted her rosy lips as she looked around her. The interior of the shop was dim and as unconventional as the exterior had been. She looked around her with something resembling childish delight bubbling up within her. She was surrounded and submerged by a sea of dream catchers hanging from the ceiling. As she moved further into the shop, she felt the feathers which hung from the circular contraption stroking her cheek and she gingerly raised her hand and with the tip of her fingers, like she was touching the most fragile and precious of objects, she allowed them to caress the pattern of garn, which was rumoured to protect individuals in sleep and catch nightmares. She walked further into the shop and studied her surroundings with shining eyes, as every crack and every crevice was filled with antique, whimsical objects that even her wild imagination would never have dreamt up. In the backdrop she heard the candid tinkling of bells, as the gust of wind from the ajar door swept into the shop and shook objects that were yet hidden from her. She felt the scent of wood and herbs and inhaled deeply, while closing her eyes blissfully at the smell which reminded her of Sherwood Forest and home and which comforted her. Unconsciously, she thought that perhaps she could purchase some herbs which the owner no doubt sold by the fresh smell of the plants which hung in the store. Perhaps, she could buy some Valerian. It would soothe her mother who had been growing increasingly anxious during the last few days.

Once she had discovered the counter behind which a woman stood with her back turned towards Julia, she made her way toward the counter and having arrived she said in a polite voice: "Excuse me, I would like to purchase some Valerian if you had some." The woman turned around at the sound of her voice and looked at her for a few seconds. The woman had a savage mane of black hair around her head and glinting emerald eyes and was wearing a blouse of vibrant unsullied white, which contrasted with her olive skin. But it was not the woman's perhaps hardy appearance that surprised Julia, it was the spark of recognition in her sea-green eyes when she had first laid eyes on Julia. Yet that same glint had been gone so quickly and had been replaced with polite indifference that Julia thought she'd perhaps only imagined it. The woman smiled at her, albeit slightly mischievously, and then in a raspy warm voice she stated: "You are in luck, my dear. We have just gotten a new shipment of fresh Valerian this morning. Why do you not look around a little bit, while I go and get it." She smiled gratefully at the woman and nodded her head.

The woman disappeared behind a doorway, which was hidden from the unwelcome eyes with a curtain of fabric covering the empty space and then Julia decided to take up the woman's offer to intrigued by the shop and its contents to resist her curiosity. She continued to move through the sea of dream catchers and looked at her surroundings with awed eyes, as she allowed her finger to trail over old cracked book spines, occasionally stopping to read the title of the book. he allowed her fingers to make their paths over the glossy wooden surface of Victorian furniture and over intricate porcelain and bright patterns.

"What will you use it for?" she heard the raspy voice of the woman state from somewhere within the confines of the shop. "I plan to make tea with it. It is rather good at soothing, I've heard." She did not get an answer from the woman and interpreted her silence as acquiescence. She continued moving throughout the shop allowing her amazement to fully capture her.

Suddenly, she stopped when she stood before a wall and on this wall the silver frame of a large mirror. She studied the object before her with interest. The engraved argent frame and the immaculate looking glass as clear as air somehow only fascinated her more, as she studied her reflection in the looking glass for a few seconds, seeing her cheeks rosy due to her walk and her flowery beige dress dusty from the streets of London. Yet what captured her attention the most was the silver frame, which was engraved with intricate patterns which upon her further scrutiny were revealed to be ancient Greek letters that overlapped in a continuous artistic swirl. Her studying eyes got the top of the frame and there was the image of three spinning women. Julia smiled as she gathered due to the Greek letters that the image of these women were likely to represent the Moirai. She recalled one of her uncle's lessons, when he had explained the women to her when she had stumbled upon their name in her reading of a novel. They were figures of Greek Mythology and were known as 'the Fates', white-robbed incarnations of destiny, who controlled the thread of life of each mortal. Clotho spinned the thread of life. Lakhesis measured the thread of life and alloted everyone a certain timespan of life. Atropos cut the thread of life and decided how each person would come to pass.

She smiled fondly as she recalled her uncle's deep, knowledgeable voice inform her of the legend. However, her eyes were soon caught by her reflection once more and startled she realized that it had changed. She was no longer wearing her flowery dress, but one that was light brown and very medieval looking and her eyes widened at the mirror image. Incredulously, she raised her fingers to touch her reflection to see if it was indeed real only to have a shiver of ice-cold dread race down her spine as her fingers went through it, like she was touching liquid water.

She shook her head disbelievingly and flinched back like she was burned. She must be imagining things, because magic mirrors did not happen in reality, only in her stories. She wondered idly if perhaps her aunt had been right and she had been reading too much and her mind had gotten indecently imaginative. She shook her head and then suddenly the shop owner appeared in the reflection. She was just about to turn around and was willing to forget the impossible, unbelievable incident she had just witnessed, yet she was stopped in her tracks when the woman's face alighted with intent. Then she felt a strong push in her back and she was propelled forward. She drew herself together preparing for the pain of the impact with the mirror.

Yet it never came.

Because she just kept falling. Like her childhood heroine, Julia fell through the looking glass.

* * *

**End of first book. As always please read and Review and leave me just a few lines telling me what you thought. I'd truly appreciate it, tell me whatever you want, if you enjoyed the imagery, the storyline, the characterisation, the characters. Now things are going to go down**


	8. Book Two: Florence, 1283

_**Book Two: Send Me an Angel**_

_Florence, Italy, 1283_

The poet stood next to the bridge and watched as the young woman approached in a slow pace, which contrasted greatly with his speeding heart and almost seemed to taunt him in its lethargy. The world ground to a near standstill as he remarked her wide, dark eyes and elegantly curled brown hair. At first he didn't recognize her, didn't recognize that sweet face that had haunted his dreams for years now. She was breathtakingly beautiful, her movements sure and graceful. Yet there was something about her face and figure that reminded him of the girl he'd fallen in love with long ago.

They'd gone their separate ways, and he had always mourned her. Always mourned the fact that he'd had to return to bitter, cruel, twisted reality so soon after having glimpsed her. That he had been flung down to hell so soon afterwards. He'd soon turned into a bitter and indifferent man, without her.

Without his angel, his muse, his beloved Beatrice.

Without her, his life had been lonely and small.

Yet now his blessedness appeared.

As she approached him with her companions, he bowed his head and body in a chivalrous salute. He had no expectation that his presence would be acknowledged. She was both perfect and untouchable, a brown-eyed angel dressed in resplendent white, while he was older, world-weary and wanting. He had no expectations that she would cast her shining eyes upon him like that night so long ago. That her rosy lips would twist into the gentlest expressions. That she would look at him with warmth that would spread like a wildfire through him. He had no expectations that one such as her would pay any attention to a damned man as him.

She had almost passed him when his downcast eyes caught sight of one of her slippers — a slipper that hesitated just in front of him. His heart beat a furious tattoo as he waited, breathless. A soft and gentle voice broke into his remembrances as she spoke to him kindly. His startled eyes flew to hers. For years and years he'd longed for this moment, dreamed of it even, but never had he imagined encountering her in such a serendipitous fashion. And never had he dared hope he would be greeted so sweetly. That she would smile at him that same bright, gentle smile that had always caused him to become dizzy and breathless. That she would look at him in that benevolent manner, which made him believe even if it was for only fraction of a second that there was salvation for him and all the damned souls in this dreary world.

He could believe that there was salvation when the gentility personified stood before him. He could believe in his saviour when for the few short seconds he laid eyes on his beloved he knew that there was heaven and paradise because she stood before him like one of god's very own winged messengers.

Caught off balance, he mumbled his pleasantries and allowed himself the indulgence of a smile — a smile that was returned to him tenfold by his muse. His heart swelled within him as the love he held for her multiplied and burned like an inferno in his chest. Alas, their conversation was all too brief before she declared that she must depart. He bowed before her as she swept by, and then straightened to stare at her retreating form. His joy at their reunion was tempered by an emergent sadness as he wondered if he'd ever see her again…


	9. Dancing inthe dark in the pale moonlight

_"So we beat on, boats against the current, born back ceaselessly into the past."- The Great Gatsby, F. Scott Fitzgerald_

* * *

Julia awoke to complete and utter darkness. In vain, her eyes flickered left and right in a frantic search for any signs of recognition, for anything that would tell her that she was still in the world that used to be filled with light. Yet all she saw was shade and the corner of her lips turned down at the realization. Uncomfortably and with rising dread, she shuffled on the floor and heard the rustling sound of foliage beneath her and as her hands fisted she could feel leaves, moist from the nightly dew, in her grasp. It was something that louted her in its comforting familiarity because it reminded Julia of the many times she had laid on the leaf covered grounds of Sherwood forest and if it had only been early morning she would have still felt the dampness that the dew had left on the leaves. But that was the only thing that was familiar to Julia in this dark and horrid abyss.

She could not see anything.

It was as if the world had been shrouded by a dark veil and destiny had decided that it would have been just to leave them all blind. She could not see anything and that alarmed her greatly, because she was to left wonder with dread if she was the only one who had the misfortune to suffer from this temporary blindness. She felt the coldness of the hard floor beneath her back seep through the thin fabric of her clothing and she shivered unconsciously. Propelled by the incommodious sensation of the bleak ground beneath her, Julia rose slowly and proceeded to draw her knees closer to her chest and look around in another vain attempt to restore her sight, in resigned hope that perhaps the darkness would be dispelled if she only persisted in her search of seeing anything.

She had often heard that blindness would effectively cause the other senses, such as sound, taste and smell to become sharper and more defined. Never had she thought that she would indeed test out that hypothesis, yet she did so now and she found it almost cruelly true. Cruelly true because it did not provide her with any comfort and only managed to make her situation more perverse. Her fingers were becoming frozen stiff as her hand became more drenched with the nightly perspiration of the foliage. She could hear the faint sound of chirping and breathing around her from things that surrounded her and which she was dreadfully blind to. Except for the low nightly symphony of the forest, as the wind blew through the foliages of the trees and they rustled and danced and the sound of the nocturne animals, silence blanketed her. And this silence only caused the thumping of her heart and the sound of blood rushing in her ears to become unbearably loud in its volume.

She was utterly lost and that feeling of helplessness only increased her distress, because she had always been self-sufficient and had always dreaded becoming a simpering and destitute maid. It indignated her that this vulnerability was forced upon her and that she was incapable of doing anything to change it.

She felt like Gretel as she wandered through the dark forest at night, desperately in search of the bread crumbs that her and her brother had lain out marking their way back home, searching in vain and feeling utterly astray and wayward. She felt like Little Red Riding Hood who slowly made her way to her grandmother's cabin only to find not her sweet, motherly grandmother in her bed but a vicious, famined wolf eyeing her with glowing red and greedy eyes. She felt like one of those helpless, wayward little girls in fairy tales whose fate was bleak and whom great turmoil awaited.

Eventually the feeling of incapacity and powerlessness became too much to bear for her, as she felt warmth course through her bloodstream, making her restless, accompanied by the feeling of vibrations at her feet. These sensations prompted her to rise, unsatisfied by her complacency. She stood up because she couldn't stay still, because the thought of being helpless and forsaken was too unendurable for her. She started to walk forwards without any direction or aim, except the need to find herself, to dispel this gnarling sense of incompetence on her part. She slung her arms around her herself, as she trembled unsure if it was the chill of the night seeping through the thin silky cloth of her dress or if it was the sensation that the alien surroundings around her were invoking within her. She was extremely diffident of her decision and at one point she had seriously questioned the wisdom of having risen and started to walk when she couldn't even see her hand before her eyes. She questioned if it had been wise of her to take the decision to roam and to give in to her stubborn and hardy nature, especially as she constantly stumbled over dry wood in her path due to her inability to make out anything before her. Yet she knew that even if it was unwise, she would have been unable to remain complacent and pacifically await darkness to retreat. So she kept on putting one foot before the other, gingerly placing them down after having explored the ground beneath her with the tip of her feet and being satisfied that nothing potentially harmful was in her way.

And that is how she spent an undefinable stretch of time, making her way through the unknown site.

She was stopped dead in her tracks, her feet stuck to the ground unable to move and paralysed, when she suddenly heard a sound behind her. It wasn't a vociferous or raucous noise that overwhelmed her in its volume and dimension. Under normal circumstances she wouldn't have found the faint sound of rustling foliage behind her threatening, because it was so subdued and moderate a sound that she normally wouldn't even have paid much mind to it. Yet that same vague and wan sound seemed amplified to her, so that it caused a shiver of dread to course throughout her body. Her mind was screaming at her to move, to escape, to seek flight against this unknown menace behind her. Yet she was unable to do anything but to stand paralysed to the spot with her eyes wide and her heart racing. She had stopped breathing, almost in an attempt to obliterate her existence, as if by doing so she would be spared of whatever evil intention the danger behind her could have towards her.

Her hardy nature turmoiled within her and while she did feel the staggering urge to run and flee, it was like an incantation had been thrust upon her. Almost like she was Sleeping Beauty who was painfully aware of the plight her people suffered while she was forced to suffer under an induced thousand-years-long sleep, unable to help her people or do anything. Yet the spell was suddenly broken when she heard the sound of dry wood breaking beneath a booted foot and she started to run, her legs working at a pace she herself was astounded at.

She felt her hair billow out behind her, as she cut through the air like an arrow while she ran and the wind blowing past her carried the strands of her hair and impacted with her cheeks causing them to become rosy and warm. It felt as if she was veiled by a numb dimness, because she could feel her arms being scratched by sharp twigs and branches, which reached out to her and attempted to grasp her like sharp claws, but she did not pay any mind to the sharp yet superficial pain generated on her forearms. She was not deterred because she was intent on surviving and if forced to name one flaw that she had and would never be able to rid herself off, it would be her stubbornness and her decisiveness. Her mother had always described her as a wilful child and so Julia kept running, despite the forest's insistence and its growth's tight grasp, determined to keep her.

She kept running and any caution and prudence that she'd retained previously while making her way through the alien location had been completely forsaken and forgotten by her, as she moved through the darkness. So great was her heedlessness and her oversight that she felt her left foot getting caught by a thick branch and consequently she stumbled and fell to the hard and cold forest floor. She held herself up with shaky arms and panted heavily in exhaustion. She could feel a faint throbbing originating from her knees, but she was too focused on combating the utter exhaustion that had taken a hold of her as soon as she had fallen to her knees. She was drenched of any willpower and could only focus on the growing lethargy of her body. Yet her fear caused her to become once more animate when she perceived the sound of howling behind her and to her it sounded like the call of devastation and desperation down in a murky bog. She started to scramble, steadfastly ignoring the burning pain of her knees. Her frenzied and terrified mind was not even calmed by the fact that the noise had been emitted quite a distance away from her location.

Her pace became impossibly more frantic as she ran with stamina and a physical perseverance she never imagined she possessed. She ran until she once more stumbled and the distress of her steps caused her ankle to twist. Julia gritted her teeth, as her legs gave out beneath her and she heard a sickening 'crack' followed by a fervent, sharp pain spreading from her ankle, up her legs and through her body. As she fell to the ground, she gritted her teeth to prevent the cry of pain from transpiring and started to cradle her right ankle in her grasp.

Dulled by the pain, she felt a devastating sense of imminent defeat take a hold of her. Her shoulders slumped and she exhaled shakily, as she was left to sit on the forest floor. She had indeed tried to rise, but arrows had been sent up to her thighs and her knees had given out shakily. When she had been younger and every morning she had explored Sherwood Forest, she had once sprained her ankle and while the pain had been excruciating, especially after never having experienced such physical pain in her short seven years on Earth, she had been able to rise and, albeit with difficulty, she had been able to return to Clifton Manor. But the pain that she felt now was incomparable and she couldn't move without feeling like a blade was being twisted in her ankle. She was condemned to stay stationary.

She fell to the ground in exhaustion and defeat. She was still frightened for her life, yet she couldn't find the strength to go on. She couldn't find the strength to once more try to rise only to fall to her knees once more in excruciating pain. She couldn't find the strength to fight on or do anything other than reflect on her life and her loved ones. She saw her father. Her dear face with his jovial face and the sparkle in his eyes that appeared every time he laughed and which she could still recall. Her dear father who had left her entirely too soon. She saw Bucky, her stubborn brother who had passions she had never understood, but whom she had loved nonetheless and who had been entirely too similar to her with his hardy spirit that refused to be reigned in by the constraints of the society they lived in. She saw Johnny, her little brother, the one she had cared for because there had been no one else there. She saw her uncle, who had taught her everything she knew and who had awakened passion and beauty and love within her by teaching her about books and poetries. Who had taught her that she was a member of the human race and that poetry, beauty, romance, love were the things she stayed alive for, everyone stayed alive for. She remembered her mother, her aunt, Mrs. McClaren and she wondered if she had lead a good life.

She fell unconscious as she saw a silhouette illuminated by moonlight approaching her.

* * *

_She was holding onto the wooden railing of the hearth in her room. She held on tightly to the carved wooden rose, as Mrs. McClaren stood behind her. Her grip was steadying because Julia felt light-headed and intense discomfort, as she felt Mrs. McClaren tighten the strings of the corset on her. She closed her eyes and hung her head and silently endured the process, which her mother had insisted upon. The woman had deemed it seemly that Julia wear a corset beneath the new dress that her aunt had brought her from London to Bucky's birthday gathering. Her mother had stated that it would be befitting of her as a young lady to be dressed appropriately and elegantly to her brother's feast, where anyone that was of importance in Nottinghamshire had been invited according to her mother. While Julia failed to see the need of the corset, she had ultimately acquiesced to her mother's wishes seeing that the woman would be incessant._

_Julia disliked the contraption that Mrs. McClaren was stringing on her body. Not only due to the discomfort it provided to her, as she felt each tightening of the strings like small stings to her sides every time and she felt her lungs being compressed more tightly each time. It was not because of the ache they provided to her physical form, but due to the fact that as Mrs. McClaren tightened the bodice further, it felt more and more like a confinement. Julia opened her eyes but continued to keep her head down, so that the careful curls that Mrs. McClaren had fashioned earlier in her hair curtained her features which had turned dark with discontent. She felt repressed and moulded into shape, as the corset became more and more etched to her form._

_Suddenly, she heard the door behind her open with an ominous groan and Julia looked up and over her shoulders to see her mother, appearing perfectly dignified and refined in an elegant floor length champagne coloured gown, her white-blonde hair in a turgid, neat bun making her sharp features appear even more aristocratic. Julia did not look anything like her mother. While the woman was composed and dignified, her appearance symmetrical and sharp, Julia was softer warmer and her features were almost too delicate to behold with her large, brown innocent eyes that oozed gentility. She had inherited her father's more jovial appearance rather than her mother's courtly beauty._

_"Julia, I must talk to you child." her mother stated in a clipped and cold voice. The woman's icy blue eyes were aloof and cold and Julia immediately straightened her spine in alarm and turned towards her mother. Mrs. McClaren had ceased her tightening of the corset, grasping a harsh solemnity that seemed to radiate from her mother. The same solemnity that caused Julia a certain degree of alarm that she had displeased her mother and which caused the young woman to turn towards her mother._

_Julia smiled tightly at the woman, her red lips quirking up a fraction of an inch at the corners, and she asked in a warm whisper: "Yes mother, what is your will?" The woman regarded Julia for a few moments and Julia looked down when she saw a flash of disapproval in the woman's eyes, before her mother walked towards the window which overlooked the garden fountain. Silence enveloped them for a few moments and then suddenly her mother's sharp tone cut through the air of the room and she stated: "I have been informed that last week Richard Montgomery made you an offer of marriage." Julia looked down and resisted the urge to sigh in frustration. She could still clearly recall the event which had caused her such righteous indignation._

_It had been last week. Richard Montgomery had returned from Cambridge where he had read accountancy a few months ago and was prepared to take over his father's business that dealt with the import and export of modern warfare. He had returned and much to Julia's chagrin, the man had taken an interest in her when he had met her at Mrs. Shaw's customary Christmas feast. It was not his interest in her that bothered her, and even though the way he would leer at her whenever he came to all on her or whenever they met made a shiver of nausea race up her body, it was the fact that she could still remember what Richard Montgomery had been like during their infancy. He had been older than both her and Tommy, but he had still deemed it appropriate to taunt Thomas Buchanan for his sickly demeanour and his palour. It had been him who had lead the crowd of mocking children during her mother's annual tea party where she had for the second time met Thomas. Julia had despised Richard for his cruelty. He had been a cold boy and Julia had been dismayed that after having returned from university, Richard Montgomery had decided to pursue her._

_"I also hear that you declined." Her mother stated pulling Julia out of her ramifications and the girl turned back toward the hearth, as she detected the anger and annoyance in her mother's voice. Her fingers rose and she started to caress the metallic thimble that hung on a cord around her neck. She looked down tenderly at the keepsake of the young boy, whom she... who had given her her first kiss. She had declined Montgomery's offer of marriage, it would have felt too much of a betrayal, accepting would have felt like treason and like a blatant disregard to Tommy's memory. She had been obstinate when she had refused Richard. Even when he had tried to persuade her and offered her all the comfort, everything that she could have wanted to ensure her happiness she had been not faltered a second and had refused him until he had left in obvious outrage and with his wounded pride and Julia had looked after him with a triumphant smirk._

_"You have heard correctly on both accounts." She had known, even when she had refused him for the first time, when her instant reaction to his proposal had been repulsion and disapproval, that her mother would have disapproved of Julia's rejection of Richard. Her mother thought him a fine young man of decent standing and thought him to be a man of integrity who could offer her all the comfort her mother felt that Julia was entitled to._

_She heard her mother state in a cold voice, seeing her daughter's obstinate spirit that she so denounced of: "What were you thinking. You have offended Mr. Montgomery greatly after he has been so attentive to you." Julia pursed her lips and shook her head slightly at her mother's words. "He was such a good man and would have been an excellent husband to you. He would have given you anything you asked." Except love and happiness, Julia thought. How could he, when she did not wish it of him and did not wish to find it with him. "You are fortunate that Mr. Montgomery is smitten enough with you to reconsider his reluctance to once more ask you. You are getting a second chance, child. I suggest you make the most of it." Julia looked over her shoulders in alarm and her lips parted as she saw her mother stand behind her in a proud, unrelenting posture. Julia shook her head and in a low voice she stated: "Mother, I will not marry him."_

_Her mother's eyes flashed with indignation, yet the woman's face was a mask of impassiveness as she stood silently contemplative for a few seconds before stating in a cold and aloof voice: "You are on the verge of turning eighteen, Julia. How long do you wish to be a burden to me? How long do you imagine continuing to be a burden to your uncle, especially now that..." Julia's nostrils flared and she looked warningly at her mother. Her indignation at her mother was palpable, her indignation that her mother would use the deterioration of her uncle's health in such a matter. Julia turned back towards the hearth and she sneered as if she had something bitter in her mouth. Cold and tense silence enveloped them and Julia's chest heaved as she tried to calm her indignation while being unable to breathe._

_Julia closed her eyes and then still cradling her first kiss, she stated: "Richard was a ruffian, mother. He always was, he was so cruel to poor, little Tommy Buchanan." She heard her mother scoff sardonically behind her and the woman asked her with exasperation: "Have still not gotten over that weak boy?" Julia pivoted her head and over her shoulder she stated, raising her voice slightly: "No, I have not. He was my friend, he is my friend. He suffered too much, more than he deserved."_

_"Do not raise your voice at me, Julia Margaret Curtis." Her mother hissed behind her venomously and Julia turned her head back towards the hearth, so quickly almost as if she had been struck by the cruel tone in her mother's words. Julia exhaled shakily and her hands came to rest on the wooden mantle piece before her._

_Julia shook her head and in a low voice she stated: "I do not love him, mother. And I doubt that he cares for me. I would simply be a trophy for him." She heard her mother scoff behind her and the woman then answered sardonically: "You have read too many books, Julia. Love is a silly fantasy, love conquers all, that is a lie. It won't feed you. It won't care for you. I loved you father and yet he left me." She cringed at the causticity and the bitterness of her mother. Yet as she heard her mother's accusations against her father she felt intense discomfort and disapproval. She turned around and looked at the woman, as she stated incredulously: "He died. He had no choice."_

_Julia looked down in shame, as her mother's mouth quirked down tortuously in response to her words and she felt regret that their discussion had escalated to such a degree. Just when she was about to apologize for her cruel words, she heard her mother say: "Mrs. McClaren, why don't you leave me and Julia. I shall finish lacing up the bodice." Julia's shoulders stiffened, as she heard the ice in her mother's tone and she kept her eyes trained on the mantle, even as she heard her mother approach her. The woman scooped Julia's hair to the side and she then proceeded to lace up her corset._

_She felt her mother tighten the strings with vehemence and Julia gritted her teeth, as she felt the sharp pulling like sharp knives to her ribs._

_"You will reconsider." She heard the woman state with complete assertion behind her, her every word emphasized by her rigid pulling of the laces. Julia looked down as she realised that suddenly the corset was not the only thing making Julia feel like she was caught in a prison without any escape in sight._

* * *

Julia opened her heavy eyelids and looked around dazedly as she awoke. Instinctively she squinted her eyes as they were flooded with bright light, and since she had been bathed by darkness previously the illuminated of the room she was located in was almost blinding her in its brightness.

Her eyes flickered left and right quickly, almost frantically, not really seeing anything until she looked up at the low wooden ceiling and the light brown boards was the first thing she could truly saw. Her tongue darted out and she licked her dry lips nervously, as she kept her gaze fixed on the wooden beam above her and she shuffled her body uncomfortably as she felt hay poke her in her back.

Her head pounded and her weary body protested, but she still sat up gingerly and proceeded to take in her surroundings. The room was rustic in its appearance with the walls and the floor completely made out of wood, which varied in its shade creating a pattern of brown dark like Julia's hair and a lighter shade of the same colour. The wood looked worn in its appearance, ravaged by humidity and time, as she could see the faded quality of some wooden boards. There was a single, narrow window on the wall to Julia's right, and a blinding quantity of light seeped through that narrow strip illuminating an otherwise bleak room. The room was bare except for the low make-shift bed she was lying on and a small table to her left, which was cluttered with objects, that she could not make out from where she sat.

She looked down after having studied the room and proceeded to cradle her head in her hands. She had become unused to light after having been resigned to never encounter it again. The bright illumination was causing her brain to pound behind her skull. Her mouth was dry like parchment and she longed for something to drink, all the while feeling a faint but incessant throbbing from her ankle. And try as she might she could not remember. She could not remember a lot. The last thing she recalled was utter darkness that was so heavy that she almost felt as if she was drowning in it. She recalled sharp pain and fear, these two detrimental feelings spreading like a wildfire through her. And before she could remember looking into a mirror with a silver frame and a woman with black hair and a white dress.

She stopped trying to remember as it only caused the pounding in her head to increase vehemently and she raised her head from hands and suspired warily.

Suddenly she heard low voices and she looked around her in alarm as she tried to find where they were coming from. She looked at the entrance frame to the room she was in and rationalized that the voices must be coming from the room beside her. The voices were quite heavy and had a slightly coarse accent to it. And at times she would hear words that suggested that the English that was spoken was antiquated. She could only hear snippets of the conversation and she leaner her head forward as she focused on the content of the discussion.

She perceived that the people- for there were at least two different pitched voices emerging from the room beside her, one deep and throaty, distinctively male and one lighter and smokier, more female in its nature- they seemed to be discussing strange clothing and by the way they kept mentioning an unnamed 'she' in their conversation, Julia realised that they were most likely talking about her. They seemed to wonder who she was and where she had come from, when she suddenly heard another male voice emerge and say in a deep tone: "She must be a noble, ma. She has too bonny a face to be a peasant."

Her curiosity was piqued by the eccentricity of the place she was in and of the outlandishness of the individuals' speech. She wished to rise as her curiosity got the better of her but as soon as she moved off the bed her ankle sent an excruciating jolt of pain up her leg. It was intense and sudden that she could not stop herself from crying out in surprised agony.

The discussion in the neighbouring died down to soon be replaced by steps on the wooden floor and as soon as she looked up from her bandaged ankle she was met with the sight of three people dressed in unconventional clothes. The men were wearing drab long grey tunics with a coarse leather belt tied around their waists. The man to the right had a weathered face and his hair was already turning grey in several places, and while the man to his right resembled him in various features of his visage he had a youth to them which was long gone from the older man's face. A woman stood between them and similarly to the man her features were coarse and weathered, yet she had kind blue eyes and a warm, motherly smile as she regarded Julia. The woman wore a coarse, long brown gown and Julia could not help but to think that they were all quite medieval looking in their attire.

With alarm she whispered: "Who are you?"

Yet she was disregarded when the woman stepped towards her, crouching down at the side of her bed and she moved the covers and gingerly took Julia's ankle in her hand. She regarded the injured limb motherly and in a smoky voice she told Julia: "You shouldn't move so much. I'm afraid your ankle might be broken." Yet Julia did not feel alarm as the woman told her of the broken bone. She did not perceive anything through her haze of shook and she whispered: "Where am I?"

"Clun Village, my dear. My son Robert found you last night just on the edge of the forest." Julia furrowed her brow as she vaguely recognized the name from somewhere, from something she had read and she was absorbed by ramifications on the reason why the name seemed so familiar to her that she only perceived unconsciously that the younger man, Robert, was telling how he had found her on the forest floor unconscious and injured and he had taken her to his mother.

The realization hit her and the breath escaped from her lungs. She grew cold as it felt as if ice had started to course through her veins rather than blood. She pale and a shiver of utter panic and incredulity raced up her spine. She realised from where she knew the name of the location. She had read about it before. In Robin Hood's Ballads, she had read about it before. It was one of the oppressed villages in Hood's Nottinghamshire, which she had for a time thought fictional but then discovered that it had indeed existed only for it to be integrated to Locksley Land later.

"What year is it?" she hears herself state in a hollow voice and she felt as if she was in a nebulous fog, as she heard the elder man answer with clear confusion in his voice: "1191 year of the Lord." And then everything around her went black, as she fell unconscious from shock.

She did not how much time had passed when she once more opened her eyes to be greeted by the brightness of the room. The light which streamed in through the windows had turned a warmed shade of orange and Julia realised that it must have been quite some time that she had been unconscious. She recalled what had caused her to faint from shock and her eyes once more widened in utter fear and incredulity. She worried for her sanity, because it could not be real. She could not really be in Medieval England, nor did this feel like a dream. No, it felt much too real to be a dream. All her senses were on alert and the sound of quiet breathing, the scent of fresh herbs which clouded the room, and the feeling of hay beneath her was too realistic to be a dream. She worried that she was imagining this all, that her imaginative mind had lost the boundary between reality and fantasy. She worried.

She felt cool hands on her ankles and she looked down to see the woman she had met previously changing the binding on her swollen ankle. Instinctively, Julia flinched away in fear even if her ankle gave a loud cry of protest. The woman looked up at her and lay a calloused, yet comforting hand on her calf and said in a low voice: "It's alright. We won't hurt you." Julia shook her head and in despaired voice she states: "This can't possibly be real." The woman smiles warmly at her and says: "I assure you, my dear. This is quite real. What is the last thing you remember other than our meeting earlier."

Julia looked down in response to the woman's words and was flooded by a deluge of memories. She could recall walking in central London. She could remember entering that eccentric yet oddly wonderful shop and walking through that sea of dream catchers with the feathers stroking her cheeks. She could remember the smell of herbs and asking a woman with a white gown and long, uncombed black hair for Valerian. She could remember looking around the shop and suddenly arriving at a large mirror with a silver frame. She remembered that her fingers had passed through the surface of the glass like through water and then she remembered looking at her reflection and seeing the shop owner push her through the looking glass. Her features contorted tortuously. She had fallen through the looking glass and travelled to the past. Her mother was right, she had been reading too many stories. She started to tremble in distress and she felt the woman pass a soothing hand on her calf and state: "There, there my dear. You are alright. It's safe."

"I'm Anne and you have met my husband Michael and my son Robert." Julia looked up at the woman, still in fright, but the woman with her caring nature had indeed made her feel more at ease. "We are serfs of Lord Sullivan of Clun. My husband and son work at the Blacksmith's and I am a healer." Julia nodded her head and swallowing the lump in her throat she stated lowly: "My name is Julia." "Very well, Lady Julia. I have just tended to your injuries and your ankle and then I shall take you to my Lord." Julia put a restraining arm on Anne and with a small voice stated: "There is no need to address me as Lady. It is not my title, nor befitting of my station." She did not know why she had refuted the title of nobility that the woman had thrust upon her, especially as she was aware of the harsh and grievous conditions that the low orders suffered during this time. Yet she'd had an intuition, a feeling in the pit of her stomach that had told her to pass herself off as a peasant. That she would be infinitely safer with Anne and the other serfs rather than with the political and manipulative nobles.

"Truly?" Anne asked her in surprise "You are not a noble?" "Is that so hard to believe?" Julia questioned with slight mirth. Anne shook her head and then stated: "You look too delicate to be a peasant and you don't seem to have done a day's work. Your hands are that of a Lady." Anne explained while nodding towards her small and smooth palms. "Where are you from?" "London." Julia answered Anne's question and then said: "I'm lost."

Julia looked down as the conversation ceased and she exploited the silence to ponder her fate in disbelief. It was not that she wasn't convinced that this was indeed real, because not even her imaginative mind could dream up such a scenario with so much detail. Yet it was impossible, because what had happened to her: It only happened in dreams, in fantastical stories. Not in real life.

She looked up to see that Anne had been talking to her, but she had been so absorbed by her incredulous thoughts that she had not heard her and she saw the woman smile proudly, as she explained: "And Lord Robin is most certainly the most courageous man I have ever met. Before he came back from the Holy Lands we lived in terrible conditions with the Sheriff constantly raising taxes, but now it's getting better." Julia looked up and she could not help the smile of delight from forming her lips as she looked down and whispered: "The legends are indeed true." She looked up to see Anne furrowing her brows in confusion and Julia stated: "The Legend of Robin Hood has travelled far and wide through England, Mrs. Anne."

Anne smiled proudly at that and started boasting about Robin Hood. She could see the bereavement on the woman's features. She could clearly see that every harsh condition the peasants were forced to suffer in the Middle Ages, that she had read about in her books had not been exaggerated in their horridness and that this woman had had to suffer through each and every one of them. Yet when she talked about Robin Hood she could see that the woman's eyes lighted with something akin to reverence and hope and it only caused Julia's respect for the heroic motif to increase. She saw Anne's features darken when she started talking about Sheriff Vasey and Sir Guy of Gisborne, the Sheriff's henchman. "Be careful never to cross paths with them. They only bring devastation and ruin. Were they mentioned in the legends as well?" Julia blinked her eyes and nodded her head: "Yes, but not a lot I'm afraid. I do not know much about them." She stated quietly asking Anne about more information of the antagonists of Robin Hood's ballads. "What did your stories say?" Anne asked her with a raised brow, as she stood up from her bedside and proceeded to dust the dirt from her skirt. "That they were cruel and malicious." Anne was just about to turn around, but looked over her shoulders to Julia, smiling bitterly and saying: "Your tales were kind." Then she excused herself and left the room.

Julia lay back on the bed again and felt something akin to acceptance course through her. Acceptance of her fate and of what had occurred to her. Acceptance of the impossible, whimsical situation she was now in. Yet she was determined. Through that acceptance she felt determination. She knew that she needed to return to her own time. To return to her mother, to Johnny, to her Uncle. She could not abandon them. She could not forsake them. Especially not now when the serenity of her family was rocked by her brother's demise and her uncle's sickness. She had to return, she only did not know how.


	10. Make a Deal with God

_"It is not everyone, who has your passion for dead leaves."- Sense and Sensibility, Jane Austen_

* * *

In retrospect, Julia would be able to state with the utmost honesty that the next few days passed in the most fleeting fashion she had ever experienced in her eighteen years of life.

Perhaps, as she would later reflect on her first days in Medieval 12th Century England, and she would find her memory beclouded and muddy; finding those first few days in that alien environment, her first days as a time-traveller a blur of voices, images that were predominated by earthy colours of green and wood and the air around her already carrying the scent of approaching invigorating autumn, she would not find it strange that she could no longer recall every single detail of that time-span in her life.

She felt that she had always been blessed that while living in the moment, she would experience the most blissful elongation of time, only to later feel resentment as she came upon the lamentable realization that she would be unable to recall certain characteristics and facets that she had, in the moment, vowed to treasure and cherish for as long as she lived. While she could distinctly remember discovering her cave in the woods surrounding her home and lying down upon the moss of the forest ground and for the first time irrevocably falling in love with English literature, no matter how hard she tried she would be unable to recall the smell of spring primroses that had prevailed throughout the clearing, or if the moss had been moist enough to drench the back of her dress earning her a later reproach from her mother, or how the pages of the book had felt caressing her fingertips. And even though she did mourn those lost thoughts, she consoled herself by acknowledging the inevitability of her memories being faded and worn away by time and cherishing the occurrences she was most definitely never likely to forget. The time when her uncle had first read to her, on a snowy Christmas morning, the story of the orphan Pip and the eccentric Miss Havisham with her whitish-yellowish wedding dress. The time when her little brother had smiled a toothless, radiant grin at her which consisted of his bare, pink gums and sisterly affection for him had conquered her chest.

Her first days in Clun Village of 12th Century England were obscure and befogged in their detail and later, when Julia would try to recall them almost desperately seeking reprieve in the memory of those who had been so kind to her during that alarming and outlandish moment in her life and offered her the support that she most intensely needed, she would only be able to remember her alarm and overwhelming fear and her skittishness at her surrounding as she lay on the hard bed in Anne's healing room with hay poking her back. She would remember how her thoughts had been consumed with her worry and her determination to find a way to return to her time, to return home. And she would recall her incredulity, how she would at times close her eyes, pressing them together tightly, intensely hoping that she would open them and perhaps gaze up at the blue ceiling of her room in London. But when she opened her eyes, she would be met with the sight of weathered and faded wood, while her ankle throbbed mercilessly. She remembered that she had laid awake when night had descended upon them, the utter and engulfing darkness rendering her anxious, and she would try and recall every single facet of Alice's story and her adventures after she had fallen into the looking glass.

And she would recall with bitter amusement, how she had envied Alice and longed to experience the same fantastical adventures that her childhood heroine had gone through. She remembered that she had tried to recall Alice's story because of the parallels that their situations contained. But try as she might she had been unsuccessful. She would have been able to recite every and each unorthodox word in Carroll's 'The Jabberwocky' but she had been unable to recall one of her favourite stories, almost as if there had been a cruel and unrelenting barrier to that part of her conscience.

Frustration at the helplessness she had felt in her situation and the feeling of her fierce determination to return to her family, painfully aware of her responsibilities towards them, coloured the memories she would retain of her first days in Robin Hood's England, rendering her unable to absorb any other details, rendering her natural and fierce curiosity inactive and had the situation been less alarming and worrisome, Julia would have devoured every single detail she could learn about this historical time period that was so obscure in her own time.

Those feelings and kindness, that is what she would recall.

A kindness that offered her the greatest comfort during this impossible time. A kindness she had most definitely not expected. There was not a doubt in Julia's mind that the only thing which kept her from becoming deranged by the defeat and insanity of her situation, was Anne's motherly warmth and her blind acceptance of Julia. The healer had tended to her, had tended to her despite not knowing anything about her other than her name, despite the fact that she was a stranger who her son had found in the forest, injured and who might just as well had surfaced in this part of earth as she had been unaware of her surroundings and of the year it was. Anne had not urged her for any answer and Julia had rarely felt such gratitude towards anyone as she did towards the older woman who cared for her and did not urge her for explanations, which Julia would have been unable to provide.

They all had been kind to her. Anne, Michael and Robert. She had gotten acquainted with the latter two after she had exited Anne's healing chamber for the first time and had joined them in breaking their fast. She was aware of the suspicious and wary looks that Michael had trained on her and she had felt complete and utter understanding at his notion of scepticism towards her. He was after all part of the least privileged part of the population during that time. He lived under strenuous conditions with an everyday meal being a luxury in his household and being exploited by an avaricious and ruthless lord. And he lived under the Sheriff of Nottingham's rule and Julia thought that if he was anything like what she had read about him, his stewardship over the county must be a true reign of terror. She did not blame or resent Michael one fraction of an inch for his uncertainty, because this was a time of survival and he was bound to resent anyone who would be an additional weight to his living.

She could not help the shame she felt whenever Anne would insist that she sit with them and they would share the meagre meals they would have in the evening with her and she would be painfully aware of her well-nourished state while being exposed to their hunger. She felt such abashment when she would see Anne studying her small, well-formed fingers with something akin to envy and she realized that she had not undergone any hardships in her life.

She did not wish to be a burden to this family who had taken her in despite their hard reality. It caused her remorse to be an additional burden to them when life was already difficult for them in the caste they inhabited during these dark times. She'd decided to depart after expressing her utmost gratitude to them and journeying to London, in hopes of finding a way to return back home. She had been decided to leave Clun Village and Anne's family, as soon as her ankle had healed to such an extent that she would be able to put weight on it and walk. Yet as soon as she had voiced a semblance of the plan to her benefactress, the serene and motherly healer had ignited into fury and, offended, had chastised Julia for her foolishness and asked her: "What could a small, fragile girl like you hope to achieve out there all alone in the world." assuming Julia to be an orphan. The woman had insisted that Julia remain with them in Clun and had been obstinate in her decision, threatening Julia with loosing her good opinion, of deeming Julia to be ungrateful after the care they had provided her.

Julia had sat wide-eyed and astonished in the wooden stool, as the woman had raged before her and had been most decided about her fate and her surprise had only increased when she had looked over her shoulder to Michael and Robert, searching for any support against the storming healer, only to see that Anne's son was nodding his head vehemently in support of his mother's decision and to see Michael continuing to focus on his meal but grunting in acquiescence to his wife's words. Met with this conviction, Julia had meekly stated that she would remain if that is what the family truly wished and that she had meant no offence and did not wish to be a burden, knowing of their situation. Anne's angry expression had softened but with an equal amount of certainty the woman had stated: "We must hold together. Compassion... that is the only thing that can save us in face of the cruelty of the world. I would not sleep a peaceful hour knowing I had let you venture out by your lonesome self to brave your fate."

Later when Julia had been out to collect water for Anne, determined that if she should remain she would help and facilitate the life of those who had taken her in to the greatest extent she could, she had reflected about Anne's words, a wisdom she would recall for the entirety of her remaining life, and she allowed a fond smile to steal her features and she would marvel about her good fortunes to have found such generous and kind people who would unknowingly offer her support in this plight, until she would be able to find a way to return back home, they would be her family.

To say that she eventually adjusted to life in Medieval times as the period she spent in Clun Village increased would be a gross exaggeration. At times, Julia would think that she would never adapt to these times which were so vastly different to her own and where commodities, which she had always taken for granted due to her upbringing which she now viewed as almost cruelly privileged, were luxuries during these times if not inexistant. She missed the hygienic standards which she had always treasured during her time, whenever she wished to bathe she would have to go to the stream in the section of Sherwood Forest closest to Clun Village, at a frequency that Robert would find queer and would label as a frivolous vanity, only causing Julia to once more realize that she was severely unsuited to live in these unhygienic times where diseases prevailed due to unfortunate living conditions. And whenever a sliver of dissatisfaction made itself apparent to her, she would feel wretched and spoiled and ungrateful of the kindness that had been shown to her. She was aware that her conditions could have been infinitely more unfortunate than those now and that she had been almost unjustly lucky to have been found by Robert, Michael and Anne. She was aware of it whenever she would accompany Michael to Nottingham on his cart and they would rive across the bridge and she would look down at the crippled and bereaved beggars.

Despite the Lord of Clun being a boorish and greedy fellow, he was harmless only having stated gruffly that she 'better not cause any trouble' when Michael and her had gone to his lord to inform him of her residence on his land. Despite the serfdom that Sir Richard employed in Clun and the exploitation he exercised on his people, he was inoffensive compared to other lords, as Michael had bleakly told her and Julia had silently agreed to his claim.

She shuddered at imagining her fate had she been found by an inhabitant of Locksley and she would have to live under the rule of Sir Guy of Gisborne. She had heard much about the Sheriff's Master-at-Arms and every tale that Robert had relayed to her when she had spent the afternoon in the smithery watching him forging steel and weapons had caused shivers of dread to race up her spine. He had always been a character in Howard Pyle's stories that had intrigued her for so little had been known about this man. The only consistent factor was his maliciousness and his villainy. Yet in some tales he'd been described as particularly ruthless and violent outlaw, while others described him as the king's cousin who courted Lady Marian, whom she had found to be inexistant to her greatest disappointment. She had always known him as the bounty hunter who was parodied due to his ridiculous attire and whom she had been unable to take seriously.

Yet she was aware that Guy of Gisborne was by far not as harmless as she had previously thought. She had come to a conclusion from what she had heard, that he was cruel, dangerous man who would stop at nothing to get what he wanted. She'd had the fortune of not meeting him up until now, the closest encounter she'd had was one afternoon when she had been returning from the smithery with Robert and she'd heard a deep voice bellow, ripping through the serenity of Clun Village. She'd flinched before Robert had urged her to quicken her step and they had sought sanctuary in their hut. She'd cursed Guy of Gisborne later, when she'd been tending the broken wrist of a child who'd been one of the victims of his anger.

She prayed that she would be able to find a way to return home before she was exposed to the Sheriff and his Henchman.

* * *

She clutched the basket filled with Valerian that Anne had asked her to fetch. It was an early autumn morning and despite the sun that shone brightly above, she could distinctly feel the approaching chill of the air on her skin through the thin moss green dress that had previously belonged to Anne. Deeming her clothing unseemly, Anne had given her the dress that had no longer fitted her after she had given birth to Robert and after making a few altercations at the seam and the waist, the dress had fitted Julia perfectly.

She would at times marvel, she had spent close to two months in Medieval England if her calculations were correct, and already Anne and her family had become an indispensable part of her life. She had grown to care greatly for them and Anne had become a motherly figure to her. It was impossible for Julia not to grow to adore the older healer, who had offered her so much comfort, who had insisted fiercely that she remain, who had wanted her well-being. Anne had grown to become one of the most treasured people in her life. She had cared for Julia and she had started to mentor her on the art of healing when Julia had expressed a keen interest on medicinal herbs and natural remedies.

At times, medieval England would feel like home.

At times she lamented having to leave her new-found friends.

Yet she could not be so selfish and irresponsible. Now that Bucky was dead, her mother and Johnny needed her, she could not simply forsake them. Her uncle was sick- the same man who was the most important person in her life- her mentor, her dearest friend. She could not abandon him to the ravishes of his illness now, not after all he had done for her.

So she needed to get back. She didn't belong here. She needed to go back. She only hoped that her determination would endure in face of this impossible task.

Her eyes were drawn up from the ground which was covered with a thick blanket of leaves that had turned warm hues of brown and orange before their decay. Her eyes were drawn toward the edge of Clun Village which she approached and she was brought to stand-still as shock and recognition flooded her. The first thing she saw was a mass of wild, black, unruly curls and then she recognized the woman which was passing before her as the shopkeeper she had met in that small store in London before she had fallen through the looking glass. As if sensing her gaze, the woman turned towards her and her obsidian eyes widened.

"You!", Julia exclaimed and the woman was roused from her astonished catatonic position and whirled on her heels before running off into another section of the forest. Urged by her need to return home, Julia's legs propelled her forward not waiting on her forming any coherent thought and she ran after the woman, who went deeper and deeper into Sherwood Forest. She did not stop to think about the implications of running after the woman and she took no note of the pain that was radiating from her recently-healed ankle and how she would only cause the limp she now walked with to worsen. She took no note of the possible implications of running deeper into the Forest, of getting lost, of encountering menaces in the form of outlaws or savage animals.

"Wait," she called out in alarm and her legs' increased their rate so she could reach the woman who was intent to escape her. As she approached her, Julia's hand snaked out and she lay a relenting hand on top of the woman's shoulders. The woman wrenched herself off her grip, yet she did not run as Julia had expected but turned towards her with an unreadable expression. The woman's reaction was so sudden and unexpected, that Julia stumbled as she had been prepared to run after the woman assuming that she would continue their chase. Julia looked at the woman and seeing her impassive expression, Julia truly questioned if she had pursued the right woman or if her mind, desperate and burdened by responsibility, had not only made her see illusions she wished for. Yet there had been a fleeting glance of recognition in the woman's obsidian gaze and it had been enough for Julia to gather her courage and speak out: "You owe me an explanation."

"I know not what you talk of child," the woman responded, causing Julia to bristle with indignation at the woman's blatant nonchalance and she said: "Do not take me for a fool. It was you who sent me here. I know it." The woman's unrelenting gaze wavered and her lips down-turned at the edges. She saw the woman's eyes flicker to the sides, as if scrutinizing their surroundings. Then after having assured herself of their solitary state, the woman whispered: I understand you confusion, girl. But I would urge you to lower your voice. I need not remind you of the fate of women who were involved in extraordinary circumstances." Julia's spine straightened at the woman's warning and heeding it she moved closer to the woman, as she started to explain: "I know this must seem confusing to you." Julia snorted in an unladylike-like manner at the understatement, yet the woman continued undeterred in the same tone: "But it is destiny that has brought you here and here you shall remain until you have completed that which is your task." Julia furrowed her brow in confusion at the woman's cryptic words and with alarm, she stated: "I can't remain here. I have to get back to Johnny and Mother and Uncle Walter. I have responsibilities, in my time." The woman raised her head and with self-assurance and solemnity glinting in her eyes, she stated: "You have responsibilities here."

At seeing Julia's fallen and helpless gaze, the woman softened and she said: "Don't worry, my dear. Everything shall turn out as it has to." Julia shook her head and pursed her lips in dissatisfaction and with a hard voice, she stated: "You have no right to keep me here." She looked up at the woman when she received no answer and saw the woman mustering her. Julia exhaled sharply feeling a desperate sense of defeat seizing her that could not even be appeased when the woman stated in a warm and comforting voice: "My name is Clothing and you must have faith that everything will be well at the end, my dear." Julia shook her head and closed her eyes, as she felt a telling and infuriating burning behind her eyes. The last thing she heard, yet she wondered if her frenzied mind only imagined it was whisper: "You are so important here, so important to _him._" Julia looked up wanting to assure herself that she had indeed heard correctly. But she looked up to find herself standing alone in the clearing.

* * *

The impacting sound of hot metal rang in her ears and raised her from her reverie. She looked up from the hay-covered ground of the smithery and toward her friend, who was working diligently with a layer of dewy perspiration forming on his fair brow. It had been a week, since she had met Clothing and her words had haunted her. She had been filled with hope when she had seen the shopkeeper and as she had pursued her in a chase through Sherwood Forest, she had truly hoped that she would be able to be reunited with her family. She had hoped that the chase would have carried her return as a consequence. Yet all she had received was a cold sense of defeat and acceptance.

The woman had talked of a task. And of her importance to this time. To someone. She had not understood why the woman's last four words had caused her heart to start beating wildly in her chest, in enthusiastic expectation. Yet it had and she had not understood. She had not understood many things. She had not understood why she needed to remain here. She did not understood why destiny would want her to remain here. She was not even sure if she had truly believed in destiny up until now. Yet believing in the woman's words had brought her more comfort and appeasement than marvelling at the reason and implications behind her situation had.

She needed to complete whatever task Clothilde had been talking of. It was the only way she would be able to return home, to Johnny, to uncle. Yet how would she hope to achieve this, if she herself was unaware of what destiny required of her. She snorted softly in derision at the impossible thought. Why out of all the people in this world was she the one going through this?

"What troubles ye, Jules." Her spine stiffened as she heard the pet name that her elder brother Bucky had always used to refer to her. She shifted her attention to Robert and saw him studying her with a small, concerned smile. She marvelled at the semblance of Robert and Bucky. It was not great, yet they had the same golden hair that contrasted so greatly with her dark, mahogany locks. Wishing to appease the man who had become a dear friend to her during this time: "It is nothing. I was just thinking about the kindness that you and your family showed me. I wish to thank you." He put down the hammer and furrowed his brows. For a short moment, he scrutinized her features as if wanting to find the real reason for her distress, for her distracted demeanour. She withstood his gaze despite feeling the urge to lower it. as she feared that he would find some kind of hint concerning the real manner she came to be here. "Well, we enjoy yer company, Jules. Me ma' especially. Ye two share an interest in those 'erbs and healin'. It does her good to have an apprentice." Julia smiled at Robert's words and inwardly sighed in relief that she had not gotten give herself away.

"You have been a great comfort to me." Julia whispered lowly and mustered Robert affectionately. She saw his gaze soften more and he stated in a tender tone: "Ye'r a very far way from home, aren't ye." She looked down sadly and nodded her head, confirming his suspicions. She felt him avert his studying gaze and then the sound of his ringing metal in the background from the other workers was joined by Robert's and Julia perched herself on the working top, awaiting her friend to finish his work so that they could return to her temporary home.

"I would like ta hear yer story. If ye ever cared to tell it." Robert stated in an off-hand manner, yet as Julia studied his stiff shoulders, she could recognize his true wish to know more about her and what had occurred before he had found her in the Forest. Julia chuckled warmly and said: "'Tis a tale to fantastical to believe." Robert looked up from his work and furrowed his brows in confusion. "I could tell you another, if you wished for it," she whispered affectionately.

Spurned by his warm smile, she started to recount the tale of the boy who never wished to grow up, Peter Pan. She told him about Neverland and Peter's adventures and of the lost boys and of Captain Hook and his vicious band of pirates, Mr. Smee and all the others. She told him of Sirens and fairies and specifically Tinkerbell. She launched herself in the comfort of recounting one of her favourite childhood tales and reminded herself of when she had been younger and she had stood at the window of her room in London, diligently seeking the night-sky for the star Peter Pan always talked of. Occasionally, she would return to herself and look at Robert who was listening to her tale with a bright and delighted smile on his face and when she realised that the other blacksmiths had ceased their work to listen to her talking about Peter's sparing with the Codfish and the latter's unfortunate encounter with the Crocodile, she truly felt like Wendy Darling as she relayed stories to the lost boys.

It was from that moment onwards, that additionally to her duties as Anne's assistant healer, she become a story-teller in Clun Village. It had started that day in the smithery where all had been delighted by her tales of the boy who never wished to grow old. Next a band of young children had come up to her, one night during the last Summer day's feast and had bid her to tell them a story. And she had indulged them. She had indulged them and told a favourite story of hers every time someone had asked her for it, which as her time living in Clun Village increased become more and more frequent. And she found that it brought her listeners just as much joy as it brought her, allowing her to seek comfort in familiar tales.

* * *

As Julia quickly moved through Anne's small home carrying warm water, she could scarcely believe that it had almost been a year since she had first awakened in medieval England. Spurned by the sound of vehement coughing, she quickened her step and entered into the room, where Anne was tending to Michael.

It had been a bereaved and cold winter that kept Julia in a constant state of being chilled to her bones. Naturally, due to exposition to the harsh and unforgiving weather, Julia and Anne had been kept constantly busy and working, as the people of Clun Village periodically fell ill and sought their help. Michael had been the latest victim of this epidemic and since he had first broken out into a fever, Julia had been heartsick with worry over him and his fate. Michael had warmed to her. He had been suspicious of her at first, but seeing her genuine friendship and care towards both his wife and his son, he had warmed to her and her gratitude towards him had grown to genuine care. Anne and her had limited supplies. They had not always been able to effectively combat the illness which took a deep-rooted seat in people's body. She dreaded being helpless in face of Michael's illness. It would cause Anne and Robert much pain. It would cause her much pain.

She entered the room with her heavy bucket and immediately she startled and set the bucket to the ground, as she saw Anne standing in front of the fireplace, struggling to support Michael's large and strong form. She made to move toward her two friends, yet before she could do so, she was pushed aside gently by Robert who had stood behind her. The large, strong young man moved past her and whispered to her in a reproaching, yet soft tone: "Ye'r even tinier than ma, Jules. Just a slip of a girl, ye'll be no 'elp here." Robert moved towards his parents and helped his mother to return Michael to the bed, upon which he lay shivering with fever. She moved towards the family and started to moisten compresses with warm water to lay on his chest, while studying Michael with an unhappy, fearful expression on her face which was mirrored on Robert and Anne's demeanour.

She was handing the moistened cloths to Anne, when she stated: "I need Yarrow." Julia nodded and stated in a low voice: "There's some in the hut, but not here." Julia cursed that all of their main supplies was located in the hut that she and Robert had discovered last spring, that lay abandoned in the heart of Sherwood Forest close to the mines and which, after its discovery, Julia and Anne had been using to treat injured workers from the mines and peasants from other villages in the county. Anne looked at her with an attentive gaze and Julia nodded her head, as she sense her friend's silent bid: "I will go to fetch it."

She turned on her heel, exiting the room. She proceeded to put the winter shawl that Anne had made her for her last name's day, while looking at the darkness of the night which reigned outside with slight trepidation and which was only broken the heavy fall of snow. She was so engrossed in her thoughts, that she did not hear Robert approaching her and startled when she felt him putting his heavy, woollen coat on her back. She looked back towards him and smiled appeasingly, as he raised the hood over her head and stated: "It will protect you much better than that flimsy cloth." She nodded her head in gratitude and braced herself as Robert opened the door. The northern winds came sweeping into their home with a roaring 'swoop' and Julia cowered slightly at her impact with the cold and mighty wind.

Just as she was about to pass Robert, he addressed her: "Be careful of the weather. If it becomes worse, spend the night there and wait for daybreak." Julia nodded her head, but was determined to return with Yarrow as quickly she could. She tightened the coat around her form and braved out into the dark night.

* * *

_~Late February 1192~_

The thunder of his horse's hooves trampled over the virgin, driven snow. He was returning from York after his meeting with the county's Sheriff, in an attempt to persuade and ensure the allegiance of the man towards his and Vasey's 'cause'. The man had been ambiguous about his decision, sitting amongst his riches with his young and voluptuous wife at his side and had dismissed Guy with disinterest, that had his blood boiling. But now he felt the cold in his very bones, despite the heavy cloak that covered him. In an attempt to warm himself he pulled the fur collar closer around his neck. It did nothing to warm him and less even to calm his temper. Vasey be damned he thought, as he rode through the darkness of night. He'd sent Guy on another fruitless attempt for their treacherous cause, which a best would only provide him amusement at the fact that Guy had once more been humiliated when his host had commented on his deposed and landless state.

He longed to return to his chamber in Locksley Manor, the only true achievement he'd had during his servitude to Vasey and to warm himself while sitting before a blazing fire and sipping spiced wine, perhaps even having a few for the fairest maiden servants in Locksley seeing to his every whim. Preparing himself for returning to Nottingham with success once more having slicked through his fingers and with his tail between his legs. He would have to return to be made fool of a lord who saw nothing of great value in him and found great joy in his humiliation. A lord to whom he was irrevocably bound.

Guy sighed in exasperation and his breath came as a white cloud of fog before his face, which dissipated in the cold night air. He kept looking forward, riding in the direction of Locksley, when suddenly he saw something moving in the distance. Just as Guy was about to narrow his eyes and lean forward in an attempt to see what he had spied in the distance, he heard the sound of wind whistling at the side of his right ear. Guy straightened in his saddle and looked over his shoulders to find an arrow embedded in the bark of the tree behind him.

As the realization came to him, he gritted his teeth on murderous hatred and rage.

It was Hood.

Hood, the man who had antagonized him since youth, who he had made as responsible for the misfortune that had ensnared him as he did himself. The boy, who still was arrogant, self-righteous and self-assured, who constantly thought to humiliate him. Spurned by his anger and the thought that if he captured Hood the Sheriff would be most pleased and would compensate him accordingly, he dug his heel in his horse's side and charged in a mad dash across an open meadow, keeping the outlaw in sight. He found it strange that Hood stood alone, unmoving as he watched his nemesis approach him in a wrathful haze. He found it even more strange that when he was so close to Hood that he could see his face, the man only looked at him with a mocking and cruel smirk. He was almost upon him when a dreadful sound came from behind him. He slowed his mount and turned his head... and he saw the sickening sight of cracks forming upon the surface he stood on.

It was ice, hidden by a layer of snow and the cracks in it came, at a furious velocity, zigzagging fast in his direction. He gave his mount the heel, urging his horse to flee. But the frightened animal reared up in panic and Guy was thrown off the saddle. He impacted with the hard ice at such a strength that the breath escaped his lung and as he lay immobile due to his pain, he heard the sound of his mount galloping off and a man's cruel laughter. Yet what was most prominent in his ear was the cracking of the ice beneath. He attempted to move once more and then the ground gave way beneath him.

All became inky blackness around him, the icy water shocking his heart and sapping the last remaining air from his lungs. Instinct screamed at him: 'Breathe! Breathe!' as he struggled in the water, no longer immobile as he realised the danger of his situation. With his arms flailing, he broke the surface and started moving into the direction that he had briefly glimpsed his horse riding in. Yet his heavy attire weighed him down and wished to sink him into the bleak oblivion. He needed to survive, not purely out of instinct but at the disconcerting knowledge that if he died now he would not have achieved anything. That he would leave a life of misery and hardship and that he would go straight to the fiery pits of hell for his villainous deeds, for working for Vasey, for his foul heart.

He stopped struggling for a moment and questioned the wisdom of his fight for survival. There would be no one to miss him. Quite the contrary, he believed that the peasants in Locksley would rejoice at his demise. He would be replaced by Vasey as soon as the man had heard about his death and Isabella, his sister... she would obviously imagine with wicked delight, the downfall of the man that had sold her and whom she had trusted, wishing that his death was as painful as possible.

What did he have to live for?

He felt himself sinking once more and he no longer felt such alarm as previously and now the inky blackness seemed almost comforting, embracing him. Even though ever fibre of his being screamed at him to fight, he did not and a weak sense of defeat too a hold of him. But also acceptance. perhaps death would be easier. perhaps hell with all its torture and horrors would be better than this place.

Instinctively, he opened his mouth knowing that he had thus sealed his doom. As the icy cold water entered his lungs, he was snapped out of his reverie and started to struggle once again, now fearful of death. He once more started to move in the water and just as he felt blackness emerging at the rim of his sight, he felt his hand grasping at firm land. With the last reserves of his strength he pulled himself upwards, out of the icy abyss.

Then he fell unconscious.


	11. Heaven crashes for a sinner like me

"_It was love at first sight, at last sight, at ever and ever sight."- Lolita, Vladimir Nabokov_

* * *

The morsel fell out of her hand, when she heard the sound of alarmed neighing coming from outside. Immediately, her spine stiffened and her head snapped back towards the source of the sound, making her long locks fly against her face. Alarmed and intrigued, she moved towards the door, wrapping the shawl around her exposed shoulders. She did not ponder that she was alone, she gave no rational thought to her decision to see what had caused the commotion outside the safety of her hut. She did not think that she was alone and decidedly helpless and vulnerable without any one to help her, if ill-will sought her out.

She did not think because as soon as she had heard the sound of neighing outside her door, her rationality had been as if extinguished and a deep and abiding need to answer to this call had seized her and proceeded to control her every action. She was compelled to go outside and as such she was not able to form any thought that could have discouraged her. Later, as she would reflect upon her behaviour and her reaction, she would almost compare her state to being under a spell.

She opened the door and bracing herself against the Arctic winds that met her, she moved outside into the falling snow and was met with the sight of large, distressed black stallion that neighed and reared back on his heels, consumed by a deep, distressing panic. She moved towards the animal and perhaps it should have frightened her, if her mind had been capable of any rationality because the animal was large, almost larger than her petite and slight form and it was rearing with his front hooves swinging savagely through the air. It could have trampled her in its thoughtless distress. She held out her hand in an appeasing gesture, yet that did not appease the animal and so, in a sudden burst of courage her hand shoot out and grasped the reins of the horse in a restricting manner. Upon seizing it, the horse started to settle and his neighing diminished in volume. Eventually its panic diluted into low neighing and heavy breathing. Seeing his calmed state, Julia moved towards him and started to pass a tender and calming hand over its nose. "Down boy. It's alright." She whispered in a soothing voice, while nuzzling the black stallion's nose.

Then she took note of the saddle on the horse's back and the large leather bag that was attached to his side. She furrowed her brow and looking back at the horse quizzically, she asked him as if he were human and able to answer her back: "What happened? Where's your rider?" The horse wrenched its nose from her grasp and swung it back vehemently and Julia flinched with alarm thinking that he would launch himself back into that panic that had made the stallion undeniably menacing. Yet the only thing the stallion did was turn and started to gallop off into the thick growth of the forest. She furrowed her brow when the black horse looked back at her, almost as if beckoning her to come with him.

Out of their own accord, her feet started to move and she kept moving while choosing not to think on the ridiculousness of her situation: that she was following an unknown and riderless horse during a snow storm.

The animal had been leading her towards the lake that lay adjacent to the healing hut. Julia squinted her eyes as the snowflakes impacted with her face and she put a protective arm to cover herself from the falling snow. She followed the horse to the bank of the river and it was only when she was standing at his side that she took note of the unconscious man, lying half on the ground and half inside the algid water.

Julia's eyes widened and she let out a startled gasp. She moved toward the large form of the man in alarm, knelt down at his side and with some effort on her part turned over the strong form of the man who lay face down in the snow.

Her fingers halted in their trajectory to feel for a pulse at the side of his throat and Julia blinked as she laid eyes on the man. He was undeniably handsome with strong aquiline and noble features which gave him a stern look and his black hair clung wetly his forehead. With a trembling hand, she brushed the wayward strands from his forehead and let out a silent sigh as she looked upon him. It was not the fact that he was probably the most handsome man Julia had seen in her life that astounded her so greatly, it was the tortured and troubled setting of his features that made her heart quicken in her chest.

With self-deprication coursing through her, she shook her head in an attempt to regain her composure and immediately she realised that the man was not breathing and surmised that he had fallen into the lake and just barely escaped drowning. She lay her hand atop his chest and pushed down a few times, her actions becoming stronger and more self-assured each time, until the man coughed and spluttered out water. Julia let out a shaky sigh as she felt relief course through her, seeing the man's breathing restored. She did not allow herself the time to wonder why this man, this stranger had invoked such intense emotions within her. She was too consumed with the thought of how she would get this man into the hut, for he was a tall fellow with broad shoulders. As Robert had said earlier she was only a slip of a girl and were he too stand, she was assured that she would most likely only reach his chest.

Just as she was pondering the situation with her lower lips caught between her teeth, she felt the stallion approach her and felt his breath on the side of her face, as he knelt down beside her. She wrenched her eye off _him _and turned towards the horse. A bright smile lighted her features as she came upon the solution to the momentary problem and she nuzzled the stallion's nose affectionately as she whispered: "Good boy, loyal boy."

She managed to get the man sideways on his saddle so that he hung like astride his horse and with a slow and careful trot, her leading it with utmost care, the stallion carried its master to her hut. All the while, she prayed to God that he would spare this man.

She laid the man on the rug before the fireplace after having dragged him, not as gently as she would have liked but to the best of her abilities, from the entrance to the rug before the fireplace. With fingers trembling from agitation, she unfastened the latch of his water-drenched coat and then started to unfasten the black-leather overcoat he wore, intent to free him of his clothes that were wet from the lake water that was icy this season. she had just freed him of his black tunic, silently wondering how someone would wear so much black, when her breath caught in her throat. Her fingers had skimmed over a muscular chest and a taut abdomen and it was difficult to wrench her sight from his strong, broad shoulders. Julia swallowed heavily and averted her eyes as she felt the blood rush into her cheeks and she grew unbearably hot before the fire. She quickly rose and covered him with any blankets or covers that she was able to find and only started to breathe normally when she had distanced herself from him.

She put water on the hearth and as soon as it had boiled, she moved back towards him and knelt beside him. Taking a deep breath and telling herself to quit being so silly because she had seen plenty of men while she had been working with Anne, she lifted the covers. She became clinical and started to search him for any injuries that he could have sustained throughout the incident. Despite a small bump on the back of his head and several blue bruises, she found nothing severe and surmised that his biggest ailments were the fever that was starting to break across his forehead and hypothermia. She looked down at him in alarm as she did not see his form trembling with cold, but being utterly still. It was not a good sign, she knew that. It meant that the shivering flex had failed because his body temperature was too low.

Anne had told her what she needed to do in such cases, yet she found herself intensely shy at the thought of doing it with him. But she had found him and unconsciously she had vowed to restore this poor man to his health, to save him. So she closed her eyes and moved towards him.

Moved by her need to care for this man and restore him to his health, Julia started to undo the fastenings of her dress and stripped to the thin, almost transparent shift that Anne had given her. She was painfully aware of how much of her skin was exposed. She lay down and for a hesitant moment she laid on her side and studied his sleeping face. She closed her eyes and with determination, she moved towards him and lay her arms around him, pulling herself flush against his form. She lowered her head and felt blood rise up to her cheeks and her breathing quickened. She tried to concentrate on anything other than the feel of his strong body against his, yet it was that and the comfort she felt in his arms that prevailed in her thoughts.

She started to focus on his breathing to ensure her that he still lived for she was unable to look up at him. The rhythmic sound was soothing and eventually her eyelids grew impossibly heavy. The emotional anxiety implied with Robert's illness and finding this man who confused her greatly due to her reaction to him, caused her immense fatigue and even though she reminded herself that she must not fall asleep because she had to care for him and she needed to return to Robert with the ground-up Yarrow, she was unable to stop the blanket of sleep to eventually wrap her in its comforting embrace.

* * *

_Elle s'assied par un arbre cassé_

_turra lee _

_turra la_

_montres de la mer pour le drapeau_

_turra lee _

_turra la_

_ne sait-elle pas son amour est mort_

_turra lee_

_turra la _

Guy looked up at the gentle and beatific face of his mother, as she sang the lullaby to him in her warm, sweet voice that flowed like honey through him. His mother smiled down at him as she sang the tune which despite its sadness brought Guy great comfort and joy. His mother was passing a wet and cooling cloth over his feverish forehead. Despite the heaviness of his head and the aching of his throat he smiled up at his mother, who appeared before him as an angelic creature illuminated by the warm light of the candle. He smiled up at his mother while he listened to her soft voice and he allowed himself the indulgence to feel comfort and appeasement in her care.

Suddenly the cloth left his forehead and he looked up with a furrowed brow to see his mother fading before him. His eyes widened and with a breaking voice he stated: "Maman, no." Yet as he tried to touch her cheek, his fingers went through her as if his mother was nothing more than air and Guy was left to watch helplessly as his mother disappeared before him again.

Greatest was his distress that he appeased to his instincts that were screaming at him to open his eyes.

With great effort, for his eyelids felt heavy and he felt lethargic and the light which flooded his vision as he opened his eyes stung and caused the throbbing in his head to intensify, Guy awoke and became cognizant to the world once more. He felt the heavy haze of fever upon him and slowed drily as his throat ached almost unbearably. He let out a low groan and tried to recollect what had happened before he had fallen unconscious. He'd been riding back from York and then he'd seen... Hood. He'd seen Hood and he'd pursued him and fallen into a lake.

Guy wondered if he had died. His vision was blurry and he could faintly make out a roaring fire before him and he immediately grew startled. He was in the fiery pits of hell. Guy knew that with all he had done in his life, he'd never hoped for a fate different than this, and yet panic grew in his chest as he thought about the torment he'd have to endure for all eternity now in this pit of damnation.

It was only when he tried to draw himself together that he felt a soft form against his. Guy furrowed his brows and closed his eyes. The form against him was distinctly female with its soft curves and the warmth it radiated and for a moment Guy's delirious mind thought about his mother, but surely his beatific mother had not gone to hell despite having committed adultery. She'd had to kind a heart. Surely she had not gone to hell.

Guy inhaled sharply and was met with the soft and sweet scent of lavender. It made his mind more hazy and as the scent clouded his sense he grew light-headed. He opened his eyes once more and his vision was cleared.

He had always found it strange when individuals claimed they would remember occurrences in their lives and never forget them. He'd always found it strange whenever Vasey would tell him that he would never forget the day Prince John had ordained him steward of Nottinghamshire or that he would never forget the day they brought down King Richard. He supposed that there were indeed people, who would be able to retain such memories, yet he thought himself above such sentimentalities. Mainly because there wasn't really an occurrence that Guy wished to remember for the rest of his existence. His life had been shaped by loss and hardships. He did not long to remember, until his old age, how he had signed his soul away to the devil the moment he had bound himself to Vasey. He did not wish to recall the day he had sold his sister to Thornton. And he longed to forget to repress every single detail about the day he lost everything and his life decayed into shambles.

But now...

No matter how long he existed, if he meandered dully through the eons or if he would cease to be the next hour, Guy of Gisborne would never forget the first moment he laid eyes on her.

He would never forget it. No matter if his mind grew senile and faded and wore away with time. Even if his sanity left him, he would always remember the moment he caught his first glimpse of that sweet face.

With wide eyes he studied the woman before him, his eyes flickered over her sleeping face as he sought to absorb every detail, to engrave her in him. He took in her creamy skin that shone like ivory and the glossy curls that framed her heart-shaped, sweet face. Her thick, long lashes lay like butterfly wings against the skin of her cheek and he could see a gathering a freckles just below her left eye. His gaze lingered, for a few moments longer, on her lips. Pouty, greedy lips. Lips that bloomed on her creamy skin like an exotic blossom and made him think of raspberries on cream. Those were the lips of temptress and greatly contrasted with the first impression of innocence he'd had of her. Those were the lips of temptress, lips that would lead the most virtuous and strongest of men to perdition and Guy was neither.

For a moment, as he'd first seen her, his heart had stopped in his chest only to start beating a furious tattoo against his ribcage. His breath had caught in his chest, as he'd felt unfamiliar warmth flood him. It was almost as if earth, life had come to a standstill.

He was so sick that he realized it. He was so sick that the emotional barriers he'd erected between himself and the rest of the world had been lowered and at sight of her disintegrated into ash. Otherwise he would have never admitted it, his stubbornness and his pride and his wariness would have prevented him. Yet the truth was that he was struck in awe at the sight of the lovely girl before him. She was a pretty girl, no doubt. Yet the softness of youth and innocence still stuck to her features and as he became aware that she lay in his arms, a realization that caused searing desire to race through his blood and consume him, he became aware that she was infinitely fragile and slight. Any other woman carrying this appearance would have not appealed to him.

Objectively, he realized that she was not the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen in his life. She was barely a woman. She was too slight and delicate, whereas voluptuous women had always appealed to him, those who possessed curves that he could grab onto in the heat of his passion. Her features were almost too delicate, too soft and were not as ethereal as the features of some women at court.

But... there was an innocence, a kindness, a warmth to her face that made Guy grow mad with tenderness at the mere sight of it. She was lovely. She was the loveliest thing he'd ever beheld and her innocent beauty,_ she_, called out to him and like the melody of a siren he was unable to resist her. She was alluring.

Her lashes started to flutter against her skin and her eye- lids rose slowly. She was looking at him with warm brown eyes that carried the confusion of sleep in their depths, but still looked at him with engraved kindness.

As she looked at him, drowsy with sleep, Guy realized that there had been a moment.

She was his moment.

And he couldn't stop looking at her.

For a few seconds, she simply looked up at him, in confusion. Then he saw her eyes clear and they widened, as her lips parted into an 'O' of astonishment.

He felt her scramble away from him and immediately he felt the loss of warmth from her body. She was rising with ungraceful movements.

He tried to call out to her, but no sound emerged from his lips and he was left to helplessly watch her as she distanced herself from him.

In a desperate attempt to keep her at his side, his hand shoot out and encircled her small wrist. He heard her give a gasp of astonishment and look down at him.

"No." Guy whispered in his hoarse voice. "Stay," he asked her. He saw her brow furrow in confusion. He looked up at her longingly and whispered to her: "I know I must leave heaven tomorrow and my only hope is that you find me again in hell. But for now... stay."

The last thing he saw before he feel asleep were brown eyes.

* * *

Translations French-English ( I don't speak French, so I did this with Google translate)

She stands by a broken tree

turra lee

turra la

Watches for the flag at sea

turra lee

turra la

Doesn't she know her love has died

turra lee

turra la


End file.
